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LIBER  AMORIS 


DOST  tbou  still  hope  thou  shall  be  fair  y 
When  no  more  fair  to  me  ? 
Or  those  that  by  thee  taken  were 
Hold  their  captivity  ? 
Is  this  thy  confidence  ?    No,  no  ; 
Trust  it  not ;  it  can  not  be  so. 

But  thou  too  late,  too  late  shall  find 

'  Twas  I  that  made  thee  fair  ; 
Thy  beauties  never  from  thy  mind 

But  from  my  losing  were  ; 
And  those  delights  that  did  thee  stole 
Confessed  the  vicinage  of  my  soul. 

The  rosy  reflex  of  my  heart 

Did  thy  pale  cheek  attire  ; 
And  what  I  was^not  what  thou  art. 

Did  gainers -on  admire. 
Go,  and  too  late  thou  shall  confess 
I  looked  thee  into  loveliness  ! 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


LIBER  AMORIS 

OR 

THE  NEW  PYGMALION 

BY 
WILLIAM  HAZLITT 


Portlancl,  Maine 

Mdccccvii^ 


This  First  Edition  on 
yan  Gelder  paper  con- 
sists of  92  f  copies. 


H.NnvMO^^--^'-^""'** 


INTRODUCTION 

WITH  those  critics  who,  because  of  the 
Liber  Amoris^  would  rank  Hazlitt 
with  Rousseau,  we  cannot  agree,  primarily 
because  in  the  "  Confessions  "  of  the  latter 
we  find,  as  we  think,  a  higher  and  more  con- 
scious art,  to  say  nothing  of  a  formulation, 
from  the  experiences  there  narrated,  of  a 
philosophy  that  has  had  no  little  influence 
in  the  world.  Rousseau's  confession-fictions 
molded  all  his  life  and  thoughts.  Hazlitt 
simply  wrote  the  story  of  his  obsession  by  a 
nympholeptic  idealization  of  a  servant  girl. 
He  knew  and  yet  refused  wholly  to  admit 
that  he  was  an  hallucinant  upon  the  subject. 
Into  his  rhapsodies,  his  rages,  there  entered 
always  a  sense  of  the  fact  that  he  was  making 
a  fool  of  himself.  He  poised,  in  a  mental 
agony  as  real  as  it  now  appears  ridiculous 
to  us,  between  passion  and  reason.  Men  a 
thousand,  as  strong,  as  cultured,  as  critical 
as  Hazlitt  have  had  such  "  affairs "  before 
and  since.  But  they  did  not  write  them  out 
for  the  world  to  read  in  all  their  sordidness. 
Hazlitt,  however  great  his  intellectual  powers, 
was,  it  seems,  congenitally  weak  on  that  side 


514886 


INTRODUCTION 

of  character  by  which  woman  approaches 
man.  The  testimony  of  many  of  his  friends 
and  contemporaries  is  to  this  effect.  This 
quality  was  as  conspicuous  in  him  as  his 
tendency  to  choler,  or  as  his  splendor  in 
conversation.  There  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  quarrel  with  this  idiosyncrasy.  But 
why  did  he  put  it  in  this  book  ?  Because  he 
had  to  get  the  subject  out  of  his  system. 
He  wrote  it  just  as  he  talked  it  to  his  friends, 
for  relief.  As  Henley  says,  he  "  wrote  it  off." 
When  his  passion  and  tragedy  had  been 
made  into  copy,  he  had  given  it  effect  and 
put  it  to  use  in  a  way  that  turned  his  defeat 
by  his  deity  into  a  sort  of  victory  —  besides 
netting  him  p£"ioo  —  and  then  it  was  dis- 
missed, forgotten,  smiled  away. 

The  incident  of  the  infatuation  for  Sarah 
Walker  is  characteristic  of  Hazlitt  the  man, 
but  its  recital  in  the  Liber  Amoris  is  not 
essential  to  the  full  understanding  of  Hazlitt, 
the  essayist  and  critic.  The  passion  does  not 
permanently  color  his  life.  It  is  not  to  be 
found  in  his  philosophic  or  aesthetic  code. 
The  book  added  nothing  to  his  distinction, 
illustrated  nothing  in  his  doctrine.  It  was 
only  an  episode  as  of  a  certain  climacteric 
period  of  half -clouded  sanity.  Had  it  never 
been  written  we  should  still  have  had  the 
best   there  is  of  Hazlitt,  though  we  might 


INTR*»UCTI#N 

have  missed  the  perfect  picture  of  that 
type  of  middle-class  girl,  whom  he  has  once 
and  forever  limned.  The  vulgarity  of  her 
niceties,  her  shallow  intellectual  and  frowsy 
aesthetic  pretentions,  the  crass  coarseness 
of  her  coyness,  the  tentativeness  of  her 
abandonment  to  the  banalities  of  boarding- 
house  "  liberties,'*  her  perfection  of  the  style 
of  "  the  polite  conversation "  affected  by 
menials  —  these  are  combined  into  a  por- 
traiture well-nigh  perfect.  And  Hazlitt 
omits  no  detail  of  the  colossal  distortion 
of  values  to  himself  by  the  silliness  of  his 
love.  It  makes  us  think  of  Bottom^  trans- 
lated. The  touch  of  psychological  curiosity 
is  lent  to  it  all  by  the  frequent  evidences 
that  Hazlitt  was  something  more  than  semi- 
conscious of  the  absurdity  of  his  illusion. 
The  Liber  Amoris  is  a  human  document  of 
rare  verity  and  vitality. 

That  there  are  a  few  purple  passages  in 
the  book  we  must  admit,  though  its  value 
is  truly  appreciable  only  as  a  whole.  The 
picture  altogether  is  what  has  interest,  be- 
cause it  is  fulfilled  of  truth.  Hazlitt  is  a 
Don  Quixote^  not  sad  only  because  he  is  not 
wholly  mad.  Sarah  Walker  is  a  Dulcinea^ 
only  she  is  debased  by  her  flirtatious,  pietis- 
tic,  pseudo-respectable  cunning.  The  book's 
realism  is  photographic ;  nay  more,  phono  - 


INTRODUCTION 

graphic,  especially  when  and  where  Sarah 
pretends  to  a  sympathy  with  the  literary 
interests  and  ideas  and  political  propensities 
—  as  for  Buonaparte  —  of  her  desperate  idol- 
izer.  The  whole  Walker  family,  even  the 
other  boarders  who  hold  Sarah  on  their 
knees,  even  as  Hazlitt  does,  to  his  most 
bitter  jealousy,  stand  out  and  really  live. 
They  are  more  real  than  Hazlitt  himself,  for 
he  is  evidently  in  masquerade,  even  when 
proclaiming  that  he  "will  worship  her  on 
indestructible  altars  "  and  "  pursue  her  with 
an  unrelenting  love."  At  times  he  reminds 
us  of  a  Malvolio  standing  off  and  looking  at 
himself  the  while  he  rhapsodizes  and  raves. 
We  could  pity  him,  but  that  the  picture  of 
her  he  presents  to  us  is  so  much  not  the 
picture  he  sees  in  the  same  lines  and  colors, 
and  he  has  at  times  such  a  perfect  grasp  of 
this  fact,  that  the  whole  history  is  at  times 
almost  completely  subdued  to  comic  issues. 
With  the  meticulosity  of  some  redactions 
of  this  work,  a  meticulosity  that  stretches 
out  into  a  finical  salacity,  we  are  not  in 
sympathy.  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  details  as  to 
the  extent  to  which  the  story  as  it  first 
appeared  has  been  mutilated  do  not  heighten 
the  literary  value  of  the  work.  In  fact,  after 
reading  the  privately  printed  issue  of  1894, 
with  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  introduction,  we  are 


INTRODUCTION 

revolted  by  the  utter  denudation  of  a  chron- 
icle of  scandal  of  every  last  vestige  of 
romance.  We  prefer  the  first  edition  of  the 
book  itself,  with  all  its  lacuncB.  As  the  story 
is  writ  therein  the  details  are  somewhat 
transfigured  and  transmuted  by  a  slight  art 
of  elision  and  ornament,  by  a  heightening 
and  deepening  touch  of  reticence,  in  a  word 
by  the  inevitable  imposition  upon  it  of  the 
writer's  indubitable  genius;  but  as  the  edi- 
tion from  the  original  manuscript  presents 
it  to  us  we  feel  that,  while  the  book  at  its 
best  is  not  great  literature,  it  is,  by  such 
treatment,  brought  down  to  the  level  of 
ordinary  yellow  journalism. 

The  Liber  Amoris  comes  near  to  being  a 
great  burlesque  of  love.  We  find  in  its  most 
truthful  passionate  passages  an  echo  authen- 
tic, but  how  maudlinly  distorted,  of  the  very 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  Lesbian.  We 
note  a  half-suspected  sense  of  caricature  in 
the  writer,  even  a  reference,  significant 
enough,  to  Learns  **  hysterica  passio."  And 
yet  we  are  truly  sorriest  for  the  idealist  when 
his  ideal  is  passing  from  him,  when  all  its 
light  and  rose  and  gold  and  silken  splendor 
fades  into  reality's  dull  drab  and  slattern 
shape,  when  he  writes  in  regret  no  less  sin- 
cere because  it  ''hath  a  dying  fall"  of  quiet 
reserve:  "her  image  seems  fast  going  into 


INTRODUCTION 

the  wastes  of  time,  like  a  weed  that  the 
wave  bears  farther  and  farther  from  me.** 
So  go  from  us  all,  things  fairer  than  poor 
Hazlitt's  tailor's  daughter.  And  yet  this 
little  shoddy  lady-slavey  lives  forever  be- 
cause a  man  truly,  fondly,  however  foolishly, 
loved  her. 

WILLIAM    MARION    REEDY. 


LIBER  AMORIS 


ADVERTISEMENT 

THE  drcumstancesy  an  outline  of  which  is 
given  in  these  pages^  happened  a  very 
short  time  ago  to  a  native  of  North  Britain, 
who  left  his  own  country  early  in  life^  in  con- 
sequence of  political  animosities  and  an  ill- 
advised  connection  in  marriage.  It  was  some 
years  after  that  he  formed  the  fatal  attachment 
which  is  the  subject  of  the  following  narrative. 
The  whole  was  transcribed  very  carefully  with 
his  own  handi  a  little  before  he  set  out  for 
the  Continent  in  hopes  of  benefiting  by  a 
change  of  scene,  but  he  died  soon  after  in  the 
Netherlands  —  it  is  supposed,  of  disappoint- 
ment preying  on  a  sickly  frame  and  morbid 
state  of  mind.  It  was  his  wish  that  what  had 
been  his  strongest  feeling  while  livings  should 
be  preserved  in  this  shape  when  he  was  no 
more.  —  It  has  been  suggested  to  the  friend, 
into  whose  hands  the  manuscript  was  entrusted, 
that  many  things  (particularly  in  the  Conver- 
sations in  the  First  Part)  either  childish  or 
redundant,  might  have  been  omitted;   but  a 


ADVERTISEMENT 

promise  was  given  that  not  a  word  should  he 
altered^  and  the  pledge  was  held  sacred.  The 
names  and  circumstances  are  so  far  disguised^ 
it  is  presumed^  as  to  prevent  any  consequences 
resulting  from  the  publication^  farther  than 
the  amusement  or  sympathy  of  the  reader » 


LIBER   AMORIS 

PART  I 
THE  PICTURE 

H.  Oh  !  is  it  you  ?  I  had  something  to 
shew  you  —  I  have  got  a  picture  here.  Do 
you  know  any  one  it*s  like  ? 

S.     No,  Sir. 

H.     Don't  you  think  it  like  yourself  ? 

S.  No:  it's  much  handsomer  than  I  can 
pretend  to  be. 

H.  That's  because  you  don't  see  yourself 
with  the  same  eyes  that  others  do.  /  don't 
think  it  handsomer,  and  the  expression  is 
hardly  so  fine  as  yours  sometimes  is. 

S.  Now  you  flatter  me.  Besides,  the 
complexion  is  fair,  and  mine  is  dark. 

H.  Thine  is  pale  and  beautiful,  my  love, 
not  dark !  But  if  your  colour  were  a  little 
heightened,  and  you  wore  the  same  dress, 
and  your  hair  were  let  down  over  your 
shoulders,  as  it  is  here,  it  might  be  taken  for 
a  picture  of  you.  Look  here,  only  see  how 
like  it  is.  The  forehead  is  like,  with  that 
little  obstinate  protrusion  in  the  middle ;  the 
eyebrows  are  like,  and  the  eyes  are  just  like 


LIBER    AMORIS 

yours,  when  you  look  up  and  say  —  "No  — 
never  1 " 

S.  What  then,  do  I  always  say  —  "No  — 
never !  '*  when  I  look  up  ? 

H.  I  don't  know  about  that  —  I  never 
heard  you  say  so  but  once;  but  that  was 
once  too  often  for  my  peace.  It  was  when 
you  told  me,  "you  could  never  be  mine." 
Ah  I  if  you  are  never  to  be  mine,  I  shall  not 
long  be  myself.  I  cannot  go  on  as  I  am. 
My  faculties  leave  me :  I  think  of  nothing,  I 
have  no  feeling  about  any  thing  but  thee: 
thy  sweet  image  has  taken  possession  of  me, 
haunts  me,  and  will  drive  me  to  distraction. 
Yet  I  could  almost  wish  to  go  mad  for  thy 
sake :  for  then  I  might  fancy  that  I  had  thy 
love  in  return,  which  I  cannot  live  without  1 

S.  Do  not,  I  beg,  talk  in  that  manner, 
but  tell  me  what  this  is  a  picture  of. 

H.  I  hardly  know;  but  it  is  a  very  small 
and  delicate  copy  (painted  in  oil  on  a  gold 
ground)  of  some  fine  old  Italian  picture, 
Guido's  or  Raphael's,  but  I  think  Raphael's. 
Some  say  it  is  a  Madonna;  others  call  it  a 
Magdalen,  and  say  you  may  distinguish  the 
tear  upon  the  cheek,  though  no  tear  is 
there.  But  it  seems  to  me  more  like  Raph- 
ael's St.  Cecilia,  "with  looks  commercing 
with  the  skies,"  than  anything  else.  —  See, 
Sarah,  how  beautiful  it  is!     Ah!  dear  girl, 


LIBER    AMORIS 

these  are  the  ideas  I  have  cherished  in  my 
heart,  and  in  my  brain ;  and  I  never  found 
any  thing  to  realise  them  on  earth  till  I  met 
with  thee,  my  love  1  While  thou  didst  seem 
sensible  of  my  kindness,  I  was  but  too 
happy:  but  now  thou  hast  cruelly  cast  me 
off. 

S.  You  have  no  reason  to  say  so :  you 
are  the  same  to  me  as  ever. 

H.  That  is,  nothing.  You  are  to  me 
everything,  and  I  am  nothing  to  you.  Is  it 
not  too  true  ? 

S.     No. 

H.  Then  kiss  me,  my  sweetest.  Oh  I 
could  you  see  your  face  now  —  your  mouth 
full  of  suppressed  sensibility,  your  downcast 
eyes,  the  soft  blush  upon  that  cheek,  you 
would  not  say  the  picture  is  not  like  because 
it  is  too  handsome,  or  because  you  want 
complexion.  Thou  art  heavenly -fair,  my 
love  —  like  her  from  whom  the  picture  was 
taken  —  the  idol  of  the  painter's  heart,  as 
thou  art  of  minel  Shall  I  make  a  drawing 
of  it,  altering  the  dress  a  little,  to  shew  you 
how  like  it  is  ? 

S.     As  you  please.  — 

THE  INVITATION 

H.  But  I  am  afraid  I  tire  you  with  this 
prosing  description  of  the  French  character 


r 
I 


LIBER    AMORIS 

and  abuse  of  the  English  ?  You  know  there 
is  but  one  subject  on  which  I  should  ever 
wish  to  talk,  if  you  would  let  me. 

S.  I  must  say,  you  don*t  seem  to  have  a 
very  high  opinion  of  this  country. 

H.  Yes,  it  is  the  place  that  gave  you 
birth. 

S.  Do  you  like  the  French  women  better 
than  the  English  ? 

H.  No:  though  they  have  finer  eyes, 
talk  better,  and  are  better  made.  But  they 
none  of  them  look  like  you.  I  like  the 
Italian  women  I  have  seen,  much  better  than 
the  French :  they  have  darker  eyes,  darker 
hair,  and  the  accents  of  their  native  tongue 
are  much  richer  and  more  melodious.  But  I 
will  give  you  a  better  account  of  them  when 
I  come  back  from  Italy,  if  you  would  like  to 
hear  it. 

S.  I  should  much.  It  is  for  that  I  have 
sometimes  had  a  wish  for  travelling  abroad, 
to  understand  something  of  the  manners 
and  characters  of  different  people. 

H.  My  sweet  girl  1  I  will  give  you  the 
best  account  I  can  —  unless  you  would  rather 
go  and  judge  for  yourself. 

S.     I  cannot. 

H.  Yes,  you  shall  go  with  me,  and  you 
shall  go  with  honour  —  you  know  what  I 
mean. 


8 


LIBER   AMORIS 

S.  You  know  it  is  not  in  your  power  to 
take  me  so. 

H.  But  it  soon  may :  and  if  you  would 
consent  to  bear  me  company,  I  would  swear 
never  to  think  of  an  Italian  woman  while  I 
am  abroad,  nor  of  an  English  one  after  I 
return  home.  Thou  art  to  me  more  than 
thy  whole  sex. 

S.     I  require  no  such  sacrifices. 

H.  Is  that  what  you  thought  I  meant  by 
sacrifices  last  night  ?  But  sacrifices  are  no 
sacrifices  when  they  are  repaid  a  thousand 
fold. 

S.     I  have  no  way  of  doing  it. 

H.     You  have  not  the  will. — 

S.     I  must  go  now. 

H.  Stay,  and  hear  me  a  little.  I  shall 
soon  be  where  I  can  no  more  hear  thy  voice, 
far  distant  from  her  I  love,  to  see  what 
change  of  climate  and  bright  skies  will  do 
for  a  sad  heart.  I  shall  perhaps  see  thee 
no  more,  but  I  shall  still  think  of  thee  the 
same  as  ever  —  I  shall  say  to  myself,  "Where 
is  she  now  ?  —  what  is  she  doing  ?  "  But  I 
shall  hardly  wish  you  to  think  of  me,  unless 
you  could  do  so  more  favourably  than  I  am 
afraid  you  will.  Ah  I  dearest  creature,  I 
shall  be  "far  distant  from  you,"  as  you  once 
said  of  another,  but  you  will  not  think  of 
me  as  of  him,  "with  the  sincerest  affection." 


LIBER    AMORIS 

The  smallest  share  of  thy  tenderness  would 
make  me  blest ;  but  couldst  thou  ever  love 
me  as  thou  didst  him,  I  should  feel  like  a 
God !  My  face  would  change  to  a  different 
expression  :  my  whole  form  would  undergo 
alteration.  I  was  getting  well,  I  was  grow- 
ing young  in  the  sweet  proofs  of  your  friend- 
ship :  you  see  how  I  droop  and  wither  under 
your  displeasure  1  Thou  art  divine,  my  love, 
and  canst  make  me  either  more  or  less  than 
mortal.  Indeed  I  am  thy  creature,  thy 
slave  —  I  only  wish  to  live  for  your  sake  — 
I  would  gladly  die  for  you  — 

S.  That  would  give  me  no  pleasure. 
But  indeed  you  greatly  overrate  my  power. 

H.  Your  power  over  me  is  that  of  sov- 
ereign grace  and  beauty.  When  I  am  near 
thee,  nothing  can  harm  me.  Thou  art  an 
angel  of  light,  shadowing  me  with  thy  soft  - 
ness.  But  when  I  let  go  thy  hand,  I  stagger 
on  a  precipice  :  out  of  thy  sight  the  world 
is  dark  to  me  and  comfortless.  There  is  no 
breathing  out  of  this  house  :  the  air  of  Italy 
will  stifle  me.  Go  with  me  and  lighten  it. 
I  can  know  no  pleasure  away  from  thee  — 

"But  I  will  come  again,  my  love, 
An'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile  !  " 


LIBER   AMORIS 

THE  MESSAGE 

S.     Mrs.  E has  called  for  the  book, 

Sir. 

H.  Oh  1  it  is  there.  Let  her  wait  a 
minute  or  two.  I  see  this  is  a  busy-day 
with  you.  How  beautiful  your  arms  look  in 
those  short  sleeves  1 

S.     I  do  not  like  to  wear  them. 

H.  Then  that  is  because  you  are  merci- 
ful, and  would  spare  frail  mortals  who  might 
die  with  gazing. 

S.     I  have  no  power  to  kill. 

H.  You  have,  you  have  —  Your  charms 
are  irresistible  as  your  will  is  inexorable.  I 
wish  I  could  see  you  always  thus.  But  I 
would  have  no  one  else  see  you  so.  I  am 
jealous  of  all  eyes  but  my  own.  I  should 
almost  like  you  to  wear  a  veil,  and  to  be 
muffled  up  from  head  to  foot ;  but  even  if 
you  were,  and  not  a  glimpse  of  you  could 
be  seen,  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  —  you 
would  only  have  to  move,  and  you  would  be 
admired  as  the  most  graceful  creature  in  the 
world.  You  smile  —  Well,  if  you  were  to 
be  won  by  fine  speeches  — 

S.     You  could  supply  them  1 

H.  It  is  however  no  laughing  matter 
with  me ;  thy  beauty  kills  me  daily,  and  I 
shall  think  of  nothing  but  thy  charms,  till 


n 


LIBER    AMORIS 

the  last  word  trembles  on  my  tongue,  and 
that  will  be  thy  name,  my  love  —  the  name 
of  my  Infelice  1  You  will  live  by  that  name, 
you  rogue,  fifty  years  after  you  are  dead. 
Don't  you  thank  me  for  that  ? 

S.  I  have  no  such  ambition,  Sir.  But 
Mrs.  E is  waiting. 

H.  She  is  not  in  love,  like  me.  You 
look  so  handsome  to-day,  I  cannot  let  you 
go.     You  have  got  a  colour. 

S.  But  you  say  I  look  best  when  I  am 
pale. 

H.  When  you  are  pale,  I  think  so ;  but 
when  you  have  a  colour,  I  then  think  you 
still  more  beautiful.  It  is  you  that  I  admire ; 
and  whatever  you  are,  I  like  best.     I  like 

you  as  Miss  L ,  I  should  like  you  still 

more  as  Mrs. .    I  once  thought  you  were 

half  inclined  to  be  a  prude,  and  I  admired 
you  as  a  "pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure." 
I  now  think  you  are  more  than  half  a  coquet, 
and  I  like  you  for  your  roguery.  The  truth 
is,  I  am  in  love  with  you,  my  angel;  and 
w^hatever  you  are,  is  to  me  the  perfection  of 
thy  sex.  I  care  not  what  thou  art,  while 
thou  art  still  thyself.  Smile  but  so,  and 
turn  my  heart  to  what  shape  you  please ! 

S.     I   am   afraid.   Sir,   Mrs.   E will 

think  you  have  forgotten  her. 

H.     I   had,   my   charmer.     But   go,  and 


LIBER    AMORIS 


make  her  a  sweet  apology,  all  graceful  as 
thou  art.  One  kiss !  Ah !  ought  I  not  to 
think  myself  the  happiest  of  men  ? 


THE  FLAGEOLET 

H.     Where  have  you  been,  my  love  ? 

S.     I  have  been  down  to  see  my  aunt,  Sir. 

H.  And  I  hope  she  has  been  giving  you 
good  advice. 

S.  I  did  not  go  to  ask  her  opinion  about 
any  thing. 

H.  And  yet  you  seem  anxious  and  agi- 
tated. You  appear  pale  and  dejected,  as  if 
your  refusal  of  me  had  touched  your  own 
breast  with  pity.  Cruel  girl!  you  look  at 
this  moment  heavenly -soft,  saint-like,  or 
resemble  some  graceful  marble  statue,  in 
the  moon's  pale  ray !  Sadness  only  height- 
ens the  elegance  of  your  features.  How  can 
I  escape  from  you,  when  every  new  occasion, 
even  your  cruelty  and  scorn,  brings  out  some 
new  charm.  Nay,  your  rejection  of  me,  by 
the  way  in  which  you  do  it,  is  only  a  new 
link  added  to  my  chain.  Raise  those  down- 
cast eyes,  bend  as  if  an  angel  stooped,  and 
kiss  me.  .  .  .  Ah !  enchanting  little  trembler  I 
if  such  is  thy  sweetness  where  thou  dost  not 
love,  what  must  thy  love  have  been  ?    I  can  - 


13 


LIBER    AMORIS 

not  think  how  any  man,  having  the  heart  of 
one,  could  go  and  leave  it. 

S.     No  one  did,  that  I  know  of. 

H.  Yes,  you  told  me  yourself  he  left  you 
(though  he  liked  you,  and  though  he  knew  — 
Oh  !  gracious  God  !  —  that  you  loved  him)  he 
left  you  because  "the  pride  of  birth  would 
not  permit  a  union."  —  For  myself,  I  would 
leave  a  throne  to  ascend  to  the  heaven  of 
thy  charms.  I  live  but  for  thee,  here  —  I 
only  wish  to  live  again  to  pass. all  eternity 
with  thee.  But  even  in  another  world,  I 
suppose  you  would  turn  from  me  to  seek 
him  out  who  scorned  you  here. 

S.  If  the  proud  scorn  us  here,  in  that 
place  we  shall  all  be  equal. 

H.  Do  not  look  so  —  do  not  talk  so  — 
unless  you  would  drive  me  mad.  I  could 
worship  you  at  this  moment.  Can  I  witness 
such  perfection,  and  bear  to  think  I  have 
lost  you  for  ever?  Oh!  let  me  hope  !  You 
see  you  can  mould  me  as  you  like.  You  can 
lead  me  by  the  hand,  like  a  little  child ;  and 
with  you  my  way  would  be  like  a  little 
child's :  —  you  could  strew  flowers  in  my 
path,  and  pour  new  life  and  hope  into  me.  I 
should  then  indeed  hail  the  return  of  spring 
with  joy,  could  I  indulge  the  faintest  hope  — 
would  you  but  let  me  try  to  please  you ! 

S.     Nothing  can  alter  my  resolution,  Sir. 


14 


LIBER    AMORIS 

H.     Will  you  go  and  leave  me  so  ? 

S.  It  is  late,  and  my  father  will  be  getting 
impatient  at  my  stopping  so  long. 

H.  You  know  he  has  nothing  to  fear  for 
you  —  it  is  poor  I  that  am  alone  in  danger. 
But  I  wanted  to  ask  about  buying  you  a 
flageolet.  Could  I  see  that  which  you  have  .«* 
If  it  is  a  pretty  one,  it  would  hardly  be  worth 
while ;  but  if  it  isn't,  I  thought  of  bespeak- 
ing an  ivory  one  for  you.  Can't  you  bring 
up  your  own  to  shew  me  ? 

S.     Not  to-night,  Sir. 

H.     I  wish  you  could. 

S.     I  cannot  —  but  I  will  in  the  morning. 

H.  Whatever  you  determine,  I  must  sub- 
mit to.     Good  night,  and  bless  thee ! 

[The  next  mornings  S.  brought  up  the  tea- 
kettle as  usual;  and  looking  towards  the  tea- 
tray  y  she  said  J  "Oh  !  I  see  my  sister  has  forgot 
the  tea-pot.^*  It  was  not  there,  sure  enough ; 
and  tripping  down  stairs^  she  came  up  in  a 
minute^  with  the  tea-pot  in  one  hand,  and  the 
flageolet  in  the  other,  balanced  so  sweetly  and 
gracefully.  It  would  have  been  awkward  to 
have  brought  up  the  flageolet  in  the  tea-tray 
and  she  could  not  have  well  gone  down  again 
on  purpose  to  fetch  it.  Something,  therefore, 
was  to  be  omitted  as  an  excuse.  Exquisite 
witch  !  But  do  I  lo^e  her  the  less  dearly  for 
it  ?    I  cannot.] 


IS 


LIBER    AMORIS 

THE  CONFESSION 

H.  You  say  you  cannot  love.  Is  there 
not  a  prior  attachment  in  the  case  ?  Was 
there  any  one  else  that  you  did  like  ? 

S.     Yes,  there  was  another. 

H.  Ah  1  I  thought  as  much.  Is  it  long 
ago  then  ? 

S.     It  is  two  years,  Sir. 

H.  And  has  time  made  no  alteration  ? 
Or  do  you  still  see  him  sometimes  ? 

S.  No,  Sir  !  But  he  is  one  to  whom  I 
feel  the  sincerest  affection,  and  ever  shall, 
though  he  is  far  distant. 

H.     And  did  he  return  your  regard  ? 

S.     I  had  every  reason  to  think  so. 

H.     What  then  broke  off  your  intimacy  ? 

S.  It  was  the  pride  of  birth,  Sir,  that 
would  not  permit  him  to  think  of  a  union. 

H.     Was  he  a  young  man  of  rank,  then  ? 

S.     His  connections  were  high. 

H.  And  did  he  never  attempt  to  persuade 
you  to«any  other  step  ? 

S.  No  —  he  had  too  great  a  regard  for 
me. 

H.  Tell  me,  my  angel,  how  was  it  ?  Was 
he  so  very  handsome?  Or  was  it  the  fine- 
ness of  his  manners  ? 

S.  It  was  more  his  manner :  but  I  can't 
tell  how  it  was.   It  was  chiefly  my  own  fault. 


i6 


LIBER   AMORIS 

I  was  foolish  to  suppose  he  could  ever  think 
seriously  of  me.  But  he  used  to  make  me 
read  with  him  —  and  I  used  to  be  with  him 
a  good  deal,  though  not  much  neither  —  and 
I  found  my  affections  entangled  before  I  was 
aware  of  it. 

H.  And  did  your  mother  and  family  know 
of  it? 

S.  No  —  I  have  never  told  any  one  but 
you;  nor  I  should  not  have  mentioned  it 
now,  but  I  thought  it  might  give  you  some 
satisfaction. 

H.     Why  did  he  go  at  last  ? 

S.     We  thought  it  better  to  part. 

H.     And  do  you  correspond  ? 

S.  No,  Sir.  But  perhaps  I  may  see  him 
again  some  time  or  other,  though  it  will  be 
only  in  the  way  of  friendship. 

H.  My  Godl  what  a  heart  is  thine,  to 
live  for  years  upon  that  bare  hope  1 

S.  I  did  not  wish  to  live  always,  Sir — 
I  wished  to  die  for  a  long  time  after,  till  I 
thought  it  not  right ;  and  since  then  I  have 
endeavoured  to  be  as  resigned  as  I  can. 

H.  And  do  you  think  the  impression  will 
never  wear  out  ? 

S.  Not  if  I  can  judge  from  my  feelings 
hitherto.  It  is  now  sometime  since, —  and  I 
find  no  difference. 

H.     May  God  for  ever  bless  you!     How 


17 


LIBER    AMORIS 

can  I  thank  you  for  your  condescension  in 
letting  me  know  your  sweet  sentiments  ?  You 
have  changed  my  esteem  into  adoration. — 
Never  can  I  harbour  a  thought  of  ill  in  thee 
again. 

S.  Indeed,  Sir,  I  wish  for  your  good 
opinion  and  your  friendship. 

H.     And  can  you  return  them  ? 

S.     Yes. 

H.     And  nothing  more  ? 

S.     No,  Sir. 

H.  You  are  an  angel,  and  I  will  spend 
my  life,  if  you  will  let  me,  in  paying  you  the 
homage  that  my  heart  feels  towards  you. 

THE  QUARREL 

H.     You  are  angry  with  me  .'* 

S.     Have  I  not  reason  ? 

H.  I  hope  you  have;  for  I  w^ould  give 
the  world  to  believe  my  suspicions  unjust. 
But,  oh  !  my  God !  after  what  I  have  thought 
of  you  and  felt  towards  you,  as  little  less 
than  an  angel,  to  have  but  a  doubt  cross  my 
mind  for  an  instant  that  you  were  what  I 
dare  not  name  —  a  common  lodging-house 
decoy,  a  kissing  convenience,  that  your  lips 
were  as  common  as  the  stairs  — 

S.     Let  me  go.  Sir ! 

H.     Nay  —  prove  to  me  that  you  are  not 


i8 


LIBER   AMORIS 

SO,  and  I  will  fall  down  and  worship  you. 
You  were  the  only  creature  that  ever  seemed 
to  love  me ;  and  to  have  my  hopes,  and  all 
my  fondness  for  you,  thus  turned  to  a  mock- 
ery —  it  is  too  much !  Tell  me  why  you  have 
deceived  me,  and  singled  me  out  as  your 
victim  ? 

S.  I  never  have.  Sir.  I  always  said  I 
could  not  love. 

H.  There  is  a  difference  between  love 
and  making  me  a  laughing-stock.  Yet  what 
else  could  be  the  meaning  of  your  little 
sister's  running  out  to  you,  and  saying  "  He 
thought  I  did  not  see  him !  "  when  I  had  fol- 
lowed you  into  the  other  room  ?  Is  it  a  joke 
upon  me  that  I  make  free  with  you  ?  Or  is  not 
the  joke  against  her  sister,  unless  you  make 
my  courtship  of  you  a  jest  to  the  whole 
house  ?  Indeed  I  do  not  well  see  how  you 
can  come  and  stay  with  me  as  you  do,  by 
the  hour  together,  and  day  after  day,  as 
openly  as  you  do,  unless  you  give  it  some 
such  turn  with  your  family.  Or  do  you 
deceive  them  as  well  as  me  ? 

S.  I  deceive  no  one,  Sir.  But  my  sister 
Betsey   was   always  watching  and  listening 

when   Mr.  M was  courting   my   eldest 

sister,  till  he  was  obliged  to  complain  of  it. 

H.  That  I  can  understand,  but  not  the 
other.     You  may  remember,  when  yourserv- 


19 


LIBER    AMORIS 

ant  Maria  looked  in  and  found  you  sitting  in 
my  lap  one  day,  and  I  was  afraid  she  might 
tell  your  mother,  you  said  "  You  did  not  care, 
for  you  had  no  secrets  from  your  mother.** 
This  seemed  to  me  odd  at  the  time,  but  I 
thought  no  more  of  it,  till  other  things 
brought  it  to  my  mind.  Am  I  to  suppose, 
then,  that  you  are  acting  a  part,  a  vile  part, 
all  this  time,  and  that  you  come  up  here,  and 
stay  as  long  as  I  like,  that  you  sit  on  my 
knee  and  put  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and 
feed  me  with  kisses,  and  let  me  take  other 
liberties  with  you,  and  that  for  a  year  to- 
gether; and  that  you  do  all  this  not  out  of 
love,  or  liking,  or  regard,  but  go  through  your 
regular  task,  like  some  young  witch,  without 
one  natural  feeling,  to  shew  your  cleverness, 
and  get  a  few  presents  out  of  me,  and  go 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  make  a  fine  laugh 
of  it  ?  There  is  something  monstrous  in  it, 
that  I  cannot  believe  of  you. 

S.  Sir,  you  have  no  right  to  harass  my 
feelings  in  the  manner  you  do.  I  have  never 
made  a  jest  of  you  to  anyone,  but  always 
felt  and  expressed  the  greatest  esteem  for 
you.  You  have  no  ground  for  complaint  in 
my  conduct ;  and  I  cannot  help  what  Betsey 
or  others  do.  I  have  always  been  consistent 
from  the  first.  I  told  you  my  regard  could 
amount  to  no  more  than  friendship. 


LIBER    AMORIS 

H.  Nay,  Sarah,  it  was  more  than  half  a 
year  before  I  knew  that  there  was  an  insur- 
mountable obstacle  in  the  way.  You  say 
your  regard  is  merely  friendship,  and  that 
you  are  sorry  I  have  ever  felt  anything  more 
for  you.  Yet  the  first  time  I  ever  asked 
you,  you  let  me  kiss  you ;  the  first  time  I 
ever  saw  you,  as  you  went  out  of  the  room, 
you  turned  full  round  at  the  door,  with  that 
inimitable  grace  with  which  you  do  every- 
thing, and  fixed  your  eyes  full  upon  me,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Is  he  caught  ? "  —  that  very 
week  you  sat  upon  my  knee,  twined  your 
arms  round  me,  caressed  me  with  every  mark 
of  tenderness  consistent  with  modesty  ;  and 
I  have  not  got  much  farther  since.  Now  if 
you  did  all  this  with  me,  a  perfect  stranger 
to  you,  and  without  any  particular  liking  to 
me,  must  I  not  conclude  you  do  so  as  a 
matter  of  course  with  everyone?  —  Or,  if 
you  do  not  do  so  with  others,  it  was  because 
you  took  a  liking  to  me  for  some  reason  or 
other. 

S.  It  was  gratitude.  Sir,  for  different 
obligations. 

H.  If  you  mean  by  obligations  the  pres- 
ents I  made  you,  I  had  given  you  none  the 
first  day  I  came.  You  do  not  consider 
yourself  obliged  to  everyone  who  asks  you 
for  a  kiss  t 


LIBER   AMORIS 

S.     No,  Sir. 

H.  I  should  not  have  thought  anything 
of  it  in  anyone  but  you.  But  you  seemed  so 
reserved  and  modest,  so  soft,  so  timid,  you 
spoke  so  low,  you  looked  so  innocent  —  I 
thought  it  impossible  you  could  deceive  me. 
Whatever  favors  you  granted  must  proceed 
from  pure  regard.  No  betrothed  virgin 
ever  gave  the  object  of  her  choice  kisses, 
caresses  more  modest  or  more  bewitching 
than  those  you  have  given  me  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  times.  Could  I  have  thought 
I  should  ever  live  to  believe  them  an  inhu- 
man mockery  of  one  who  had  the  sincerest 
regard  for  you  ?  Do  you  think  they  will  not 
now  turn  to  rank  poison  in  my  veins,  and 
kill  me,  soul  and  body?  You  say  it  is 
friendship  —  but  if  this  is  friendship,  I'll 
forswear  love.  Ah  1  Sarah !  it  must  be 
something  more  or  less  than  friendship.  If 
your  caresses  are  sincere,  they  shew  fond- 
ness—  if  they  are  not,  I  must  be  more  than 
indifferent  to  you.  Indeed  you  once  let 
some  words  drop,  as  if  I  were  out  of  the 
question  in  such  matters,  and  you  could 
trifle  with  me  with  impunity.  Yet  you  com- 
plain at  other  times  that  no  one  ever  took 
such  liberties  with  you  as  I  have  done.  I 
remember  once  in  particular  your  saying,  as 
you  went  out  at  the  door  in  anger  —  "  I  had 


LIBER    AMORIS 

an  attachment  before,  but  that  person  never 
attempted  anything  of  the  kind."  Good 
Godl  How  did  I  dwell  on  that  word 
before^  thinking  it  implied  an  attachment  to 
me  also ;  but  you  have  since  disclaimed  any 
such  meaning.  You  say  you  have  never 
professed  more  than  esteem.  Yet  once, 
when  you  were  sitting  in  your  old  place,  on 
my  knee,  embracing  and  fondly  embraced, 
and  I  asked  you  if  you  could  not  love,  you 
made  answer,  "  I  could  easily  say  so,  wheth- 
er I  did  or  not  —  you  should  judge  by  my 
ACTIONS !  "  And  another  time,  when  you 
were  in  the  same  posture,  and  I  reproached 
you  with  indifference,  you  replied  in  these 
words,  "Do  I  SEEM  indifferent.?"  Was 
I  to  blame  after  this  to  indulge  my  passion 
for  the  loveliest  of  her  sex  ?  Or  what  can 
I  think .? 

S.     I  am  no  prude.  Sir. 

H.  Yet  you  might  be  taken  for  one.  So 
your  mother  said,  "It  was  hard  if  you  might 
not  indulge  in  a  little  levity."  She  has 
strange  notions  of  levity.  But  levity,  my 
dear,  is  quite  out  of  character  in  you.  Your 
ordinary  walk  is  as  if  you  were  performing 
some  religious  ceremony:  you  come  up  to 
my  table  of  a  morning,  when  you  merely 
bring  in  the  tea-things,  as  if  you  were  advanc- 
ing to  the  altar.    You  move  in  minuet -time: 


23 


LIBER    AMORIS 

you  measure  every  step,  as  if  you  were  afraid 
of  offending  in  the  smallest  things.  I  never 
hear  your  approach  on  the  stairs,  but  by  a 
sort  of  hushed  silence.  When  you  enter 
the  room,  the  Graces  wait  on  you,  and  Love 
waves  round  your  person  in  gentle  undula- 
tions, breathing  balm  into  the  soul!  By 
Heaven,  you  are  an  angel !  You  look  like 
one  at  this  instant !  Do  I  not  adore  you  — 
and  have  I  merited  this  return  ? 

S.  I  have  repeatedly  answered  that  ques- 
tion. You  sit  and  fancy  things  out  of  your 
own  head,  and  then  lay  them  to  my  charge. 
There  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  your  suspicions. 

H.  Did  I  not  overhear  the  conversation 
down -stairs  last  night,  to  which  you  were  a 
party  ?     Shall  I  repeat  it  ? 

S.     I  had  rather  not  hear  it ! 

H.  Or  what  am  I  to  think  of  this  story 
of  the  footman  } 

S.  It  is  false,  Sir,  I  never  did  anything  of 
the  sort. 

H.  Nay,  when  I  told  your  mother  I 
wished  she  wouldn't  *********  (as 
I  heard  she  did)  she  said  "  Oh,  there's  noth- 
ing in  that,  for  Sarah  very  often  *****  *j" 
and  your  doing  so  before  company,  is  only  a 
trifling  addition  to  the  sport. 

S.  I'll  call  my  mother,  Sir,  and  she  shall 
contradict  you. 


24 


LIBER   AMORIS 

H.  Then  she'll  contradict  herself.  But 
did  not  you  boast  you  were  "  very  persever- 
ing in  your  resistance  to  gay  young  men,'* 
and  had  been  "  several  times  obliged  to  ring 
the  bell  ?"  Did  you  always  ring  it  ?  Or  did 
you  get  into  these  dilemmas  that  made  it 
necessary,  merely  by  the  demureness  of  your 
looks  and  ways  ?  Or  had  nothing  else  passed  ? 
Or  have  you  two  characters,  one  that  you 
palm  off  upon  me,  and  another,  your  natural 
one,  that  you  resume  when  you  get  out  of 
the  room,  like  an  actress  who  throws  aside 
her  artificial  part  behind  the  scenes  ?  Did 
you  not,  when  I  was  courting  you  on  the 

staircase  the  first  night  Mr.  C came,  beg 

me  to  desist,  for  if  the  new  lodger  heard  us, 
he'd  take  you  for  a  light  character?  Was 
that  all  ?  Were  you  only  afraid  of  being 
taken  for  a  light  character  t     Oh !  Sarah  ! 

S.     I'll  stay  and  hear  this  no  longer. 

H.  Yes,  one  word  more.  Did  you  not 
love  another  ? 

S.     Yes,  and  ever  shall  most  sincerely. 

H.  Then,  that  is  my  only  hope.  If  you 
could  feel  this  sentiment  for  him,  you  cannot 
be  what  you  seem  to  me  of  late.  But  there 
is  another  thing  I  had  to  say  —  be  what  you 
will,  I  love  you  to  distraction !  You  are  the 
only  woman  that  ever  made  me  think  she 
loved  me,  and  that  feeling  was  so  new  to 


25 


LIBER    AMORIS 

me,  and  so  delicious,  that  it  "will  never 
from  my  heart,"  Thou  wert  to  me  a  little 
tender  flower,  blooming  in  the  wilderness  of 
my  life ;  and  though  thou  should'st  turn  out 
a  weed,  I'll  not  fling  thee  from  me,  while  I 
can  help  it.  Wert  thou  all  that  I  dread  to 
think — wert  thou  a  wretched  wanderer  in 
the  street,  covered  with  rags,  disease,  and 
infamy,  I'd  clasp  thee  to  my  bosom,  and  live 
and  die  with  thee,  my  love.  Kiss  me,  thou 
little  sorceress  1 

S.     Never. 

H.  Then  go :  but  remember  I  cannot 
live  without  you  —  nor  I  will  not. 

THE  RECONCILIATION 

H.     I  HAVE  then  lost  your  friendship  ? 

S.  Nothing  tends  more  to  alienate  friend- 
ship than  insult. 

H.  The  words  I  uttered  hurt  me  more 
than  they  did  you. 

S.  It  was  not  words  merely,  but  actions 
as  well. 

H.  Nothing  I  can  say  or  do  can  ever 
alter  my  fondness  for  you  —  Ah,  Sarah  I  I 
am  unworthy  of  your  love:  I  hardly  dare 
ask  for  your  pity ;  but  oh  !  save  me  —  save 
me  from  your  scorn:  I  cannot  bear  it  —  it 
withers  me  like  lightning. 


26 


LIBER    AMORIS 

S.  I  bear  no  malice,  Sir;  but  my  brother, 
who  would  scorn  to  tell  a  lie  for  his  sister, 
can  bear  witness  for  me  that  there  was  no 
truth  in  what  you  were  told. 

H.  I  believe  it ;  or  there  is  no  truth  in 
woman.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that 
you  do  not  return  my  regard;  it  would  be 
too  much  for  me  to  think  that  you  did  not 
deserve  it.  But  cannot  you  forgive  the 
agony  of  the  moment  ? 

S.  I  can  forgive;  but  it  is  not  easy  to 
forget  some  things ! 

H.  Nay,  my  sweet  Sarah  (frown  if  you 
will  I  can  bear  your  resentment  for  my  ill 
behaviour,  it  is  only  your  scorn  and  indiffer- 
ence that  harrow  up  my  soul)  —  but  I  was 
going  to  ask,  if  you  had  been  engaged  to  be 
married  to  any  one,  and  the  day  was  fixed, 
and  he  had  heard  what  I  did,  whether  he 
could  have  felt  any  true  regard  for  the  char- 
acter of  his  bride,  his  wife,  if  he  had  not 
been  hurt  and  alarmed  as  I  was  ? 

S.  I  believe,  actual  contracts  of  marriage 
have  sometimes  been  broken  off  by  unjust 
suspicions. 

H.  Or  had  it  been  your  old  friend,  what 
do  you  think  he  would  have  said  in  my 
case? 

S.  He  would  never  have  listened  to  any- 
thing of  the  sort. 


27 


LIBER    AMORIS 

H.  He  had  greater  reasons  for  confidence 
than  I  have.  But  it  is  your  repeated  cruel 
rejection  of  me  that  drives  me  almost  to 
madness.  Tell  me,  love,  is  there  not,  besides 
your  attachment  to  him,  a  repugnance  to  me  ? 

S.     No,  none  whatever. 

H.  I  fear  there  is  an  original  dislike, 
which  no  efforts  of  mine  can  overcome. 

S.  It  is  not  you  —  it  is  my  feelings  with 
respect  to  another,  which  are  unalterable. 

H.  And  yet  you  have  no  hope  of  ever 
being  his  ?  And  yet  you  accuse  me  of  being 
romantic  in  my  sentiments. 

S.  I  have  indeed  long  ceased  to  hope; 
but  yet  I  sometimes  hope  against  hope. 

H.  My  love!  were  it  in  my  power,  thy 
hopes  should  be  fulfilled  to-morrow.  Next 
to  my  own,  there  is  nothing  that  could  give 
me  so  much  satisfaction  as  to  see  thine  real- 
ized! Do  I  not  love  thee,  when  I  can  feel 
such  an  interest  in  thy  love  for  another  }  It 
was  that  which  first  wedded  my  very  soul  to 
you.  I  would  give  worlds  for  a  share  in  a 
heart  so  rich  in  pure  affection ! 

S.  And  yet  I  did  not  tell  you  of  the  cir- 
cumstance to  raise  myself  in  your  opinion. 

H.  You  are  a  sublime  little  thing  I  And 
yet,  as  you  have  no  prospects  there,  I  cannot 
help  thinking,  the  best  thing  would  be  to  do 
as  I  have  said. 


28 


LIBER    AMORIS 

S.  I  would  never  marry  a  man  I  did  not 
love  beyond  all  the  world. 

H.  I  should  be  satisfied  with  less  than 
that  —  with  the  love,  or  regard,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  you  have  shown  me  before  mar- 
riage, if  that  has  only  been  sincere.  You 
would  hardly  like  me  less  afterwards. 

S.  Endearments  would,  I  should  think, 
increase  regard,  where  there  was  love  before- 
hand ;  but  that  is  not  exactly  my  case. 

H.  But  I  think  you  would  be  happier 
than  you  are  at  present.  You  take  pleasure 
in  my  conversation,  and  you  say  you  have 
an  esteem  for  me ;  and  it  is  upon  this,  after 
the  honeymoon,  that  marriage  chiefly  turns. 

S.  Do  you  think  there  is  no  pleasure  in 
a  single  life  .•* 

H.  Do  you  mean  on  account  of  its 
liberty  ? 

S.  No,  but  I  feel  that  forced  duty  is  no 
duty.  I  have  high  ideas  of  the  married 
state ! 

H.     Higher  than  of  the  maiden  state  ? 

S.     I  understand  you,  Sir. 

H.  I  meant  nothing ;  but  you  have  some- 
times spoken  of  any  serious  attachment  as  a 
tie  upon  you.  It  is  not  that  you  prefer 
flirting  with  "  gay  young  men"  to  becoming 
a  mere  dull  domestic  wife  ? 

S.     You  have  no  right  to  throw  out  such 


29 


LIBER  A  MORIS 

insinuations :  for  though  I  am  but  a  trades- 
man's daughter,  I  have  as  nice  a  sense  of 
honour  as  anyone  can  have. 

H.  Talk  of  a  tradesman's  daughter !  you 
would  ennoble  any  family,  thou  glorious 
girl,  by  true  nobility  of  mind. 

S.  Oh  !  Sir,  you  flatter  me.  I  know  my 
own  inferiority  to  most. 

H.  To  none ;  there  is  no  one  above  thee, 
man  nor  woman  either.  You  are  above 
your  situation,  which  is  not  fit  for  you. 

S.  I  am  contented  with  my  lot,  and  do 
my  duty  as  cheerfully  as  I  can. 

H.  Have  you  not  told  me  your  spirits 
grow  worse  every  year  ? 

S.  Not  on  that  account:  but  some  dis- 
appointments are  hard  to  bear  up  against. 

!H.  If  you  talk  about  that,  you'll  unman 
me.  But  tell  me,  my  love,  —  I  have  thought 
of  it  as  something  that  might  account  for 
some  circumstances ;  that  is,  as  a  mere  possi- 
bility. But  tell  me,  there  was  not  a  likeness 
between  me  and  your  old  lover  that  struck 
you  at  first  sight  ?     Was  there  ? 

S.     No,  Sir,  none. 

H.  Well,  I  didn't  think  it  likely  there 
should. 

S.    But  there  was  a  likeness. 

H.     To  whom  ? 

S.     To  that  little  image  !  {looking  intently 


30 


LIBER  AMORIS 

on  a  small  bronze  figure  of  Buonaparte  on  the 
mantelpiece), 

H.     What,  do  you  mean  to  Buonaparte  ? 

S.     Yes,  all  but  the  nose  was  just  like. 

H.    And  was  his  figure  the  same  ? 

S.     He  was  taller  1 

[  /  got  up  and  gam  her  the  image^  and  told 
her  it  was  hers  hy  every  right  that  was  sacred. 
She  refused  at  first  to  take  so  valuable  a  curi- 
osity ^  and  said  she  would  keep  it  for  me.  But 
I  pressed  it  eagerly^  and  she  took  it.  She 
immediately  came  and  sat  down^  and  put  her 
arm  round  my  neck^  and  kissed  me,  and  I  said, 
^^Is  it  not  plain  we  are  the  best  friends  in 
the  world,  since  we  are  always  so  glad  to  make 
it  up?^^  And  then  I  added  '•'How  odd  it  was 
that  the  God  of  my  idolatry  should  turn  out  to 
he  like  her  Idol,  and  said  it  was  no  wonder 
that  the  same  face  which  awed  the  world  should 
conquer  the  sweetest  creature  in  itV'^  How  I 
loved  her  at  that  moment !  Is  it  possible  that 
the  wretch  who  writes  this  could  ever  have  been 
so  blest !  Heavenly  delicious  creature  !  Can 
I  live  without  her  ?    Oh  !  no  —  never  —  never. 

"What  is  this  world  ?    What  asken  men  to  have, 
Now  with  his  love,  now  in  the  cold  grave, 
Alone,  withouten  any  compagnie  ! " 

Let  me  but  see  her  again !    She  cannot  hate 
the  man  who  loves  her  as  I  do.] 


31 


LIBER   AMORIS 

LETTERS  TO  THE  SAME 

Feb,,  1822. 
— You  will  scold  me  for  this,  and  ask  me 
if  this  is  keeping  my  promise  to  mind  my 
work.  One  half  of  it  was  to  think  of  Sarah : 
and  besides,  I  do  not  neglect  my  work  either, 
I  assure  you.  I  regularly  do  ten  pages  a 
day,  which  mounts  up  to  thirty  guineas* 
worth  a  week,  so  that  you  see  I  should  grow 
rich  at  this  rate,  if  I  could  keep  on  so ;  and 
I  could  keep  on  so,  if  I  had  you  with  me  to 
encourage  me  with  your  sweet  smiles,  and 
share  my  lot.  The  Berwick  smacks  sail 
twice  a  week,  and  the  wind  sits  fair.  When 
I  think  of  the  thousand  endearing  caresses 
that  have  passed  between  us,  I  do  not  won- 
der at  the  strong  attachment  that  draws  me 
to  you ;  but  I  am  sorry  for  my  own  want  of 
power  to  please.  I  hear  the  wind  sigh 
through  the  lattice,  and  keep  repeating  over 
and  over  to  myself  two  lines  of  Lord  Byron's 
Tragedy  — 

"So  shalt  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side 
Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  be."  — 

applying  them  to  thee,  my  love,  and  think- 
ing whether  I  shall  ever  see  thee  again. 
Perhaps  not  —  for  some  years  at  least  — 
till  both  thou  and  I  are  old  —  and  then, 
when   all   else   have  forsaken   thee,  I  will 


32 


LIBER    AMORIS 

creep  to  thee,  and  die  in  thine  arms.  You 
once  made  me  believe  I  was  not  hated  by 
her  I  loved;  and  for  that  sensation,  so 
delicious  was  it,  though  but  a  mockery  and 
a  dream,  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever 
pay.  I  thought  to  have  dried  up  my  tears 
for  ever,  the  day  I  left  you;  but  as  1  write 
this,  they  stream  again.  If  they  did  not,  I 
think  my  heart  would  burst.  I  walk  out 
here  of  an  afternoon,  and  hear  the  notes  of 
the  thrush,  that  come  up  from  a  sheltered 
valley  below,  welcome  in  the  spring;  but 
they  do  not  melt  my  heart  as  they  used :  it 
is  grown  cold  and  dead.  As  you  say,  it  will 
one  day  be  colder.  —  Forgive  what  I  have 
written  above  ;  I  did  not  intend  it :  but  you 
were  once  my  little  all,  and  I  cannot  bear 
the  thought  of  having  lost  you  for  ever,  I 
fear  through  my  own  fault.  Has  any  one 
called  ?  Do  not  send  any  letters  that  come. 
I  should  like  you  and  your  mother  (if  agree- 
able) to  go  and  see  Mr.  Kean  in  Othello, 
and  Miss  Stephens  in   Love  in  a  Village. 

If  you  will,  I  will  write  to  Mr.  T ,  to 

send  you  tickets.     Has  Mr.  P called  ? 

I  think  I  must  send  to  him  for  the  picture 
to  kiss  and  talk  to.  Kiss  me,  my  best 
beloved.  Ah  !  if  you  can  never  be  mine, 
still  let  me  be  your  proud  and  happy  slave. 

H. 


33 


LIBER    AMORIS 


TO  THE  SAME 

March^  1822. 

—  You  will  be  glad  to  learn  I  have  done  my 
work  —  a  volume  in  less  than  a  month.  This 
is  one  reason  why  I  am  better  than  when  I 
came,  and  another  is,  I  have  had  two  letters 
from  Sarah.  I  am  pleased  I  have  got 
through  this  job,  as  I  was  afraid  I  might 
lose  reputation  by  it  (which  I  can  little 
afford  to  lose)  —  and  besides,  I  am  more 
anxious  to  do  well  now,  as  I  wish  you  to 
hear  me  well  spoken  of.  I  walk  out  of  an 
afternoon,  and  hear  the  birds  sing  as  I  told 
you,  and  think,  if  I  had  you  hanging  on  my 
arm,  and  that  for  life,  how  happy  I  should 
be  — happier  than  I  ever  hoped  to  be,  or  had 
any  conception  of  till  I  knew  you.  ^^  But 
that  can  never  be  " —  I  hear  you  answer  in  a 
soft,  low  murmur.  Well,  let  me  dream  of  it 
sometimes  —  I  am  not  happy  too  often,  ex- 
cept when  that  favourite  note,  the  harbinger 
of  spring,  recalling  the  hopes  of  my  youth, 
whispers  thy  name  and  peace  together  in 
my  ear.  I  was  reading  something  about  Mr. 
Macready  to-day,  and  this  put  me  in  mind  of 
that  delicious  night,  when  I  went  with  your 
mother  and  you  to  see  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Can  I  forget  it  for  a  moment  —  your  sweet 


34 


LIBER    AMORIS 

modest  looks,  your  infinite  propriety  of 
behaviour,  all  your  sweet  winning  ways  — 
your  hesitating  about  taking  my  arm  as  we 
came  out  till  your  mother  did — your  laugh- 
ing about  nearly  losing  your  cloak  —  your 
stepping  into  the  coach  without  my  being 
able  to  make  the  slightest  discovery  —  and 
oh  !  my  sitting  down  beside  you  there,  you 
whom  I  had  loved  so  long,  so  well,  and  your 
assuring  me  I  had  not  lessened  your  pleasure 
at  the  play  by  being  with  you,  and  giving  me 
your  dear  hand  to  press  in  mine !  I  thought 
I  was  in  heaven  —  that  slender  exquisitely- 
turned  form  contained  my  all  of  heaven  upon 
earth;  and  as  I  folded  you  —  yes,  you,  my 
own  best  Sarah,  to  my  bosom,  there  was,  as 
you  say,  a  tie  between  us  —  you  did  seem  to 
me,  for  those  few  short  moments,  to  be 
mine  in  all  truth  and  honour  and  sacredness 
—  Oh !  that  we  could  be  always  so  —  Do  not  * 
mock  me,  for  I  am  a  very  child  in  love.  I 
ought  to  beg  pardon  for  behaving  so  ill  after- 
wards, but  I  hope  the  little  image  made  it  up 
between  us,  &c. 


\To  this  letter  I  have  received  no  answer ^  not 
a  line.  The  rolling  years  of  eternity  will 
never  fill  up  that  blank.  Where  shall  I  he  ? 
IVhat  am  I  ?     Or  where  have  I  been  ?] 


35 


LIBER   AMORIS 

WRITTEN  IN    A    BLANK    LEAF    OF 
ENDYMION 

I  WANT  a  hand  to  guide  me,  an  eye  to 
cheer  me,  a  bosom  to  repose  on  ;  all  which  I 
shall  never  have,  but  shall  stagger  into  my 
grave,  old  before  my  time,  unloved  and 
unlovely,  unless  S.  L.  keeps  her  faith  with 
me. 

******* 

*  *  *  * 
—  But  by  her  dove's  eyes  and  serpent-shape, 
I  think  she  does  not  hate  me ;  by  her  smooth 
forehead  and  her  crested  hair,  I  own  I  love 
her;  by  her  soft  looks  and  queen-like  grace 
(which  men  might  fall  down  and  worship) 
I  swear  to  live  and  die  for  her  1 

A  PROPOSAL  OF  LOVE 
{Given  to  her  in  our  early  acquaintance) 

**  Oh  !  if  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman 

(As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you) 

To  feed  for  aye  her  lamp  and  flames  of  love, 

To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth, 

Outliving  beauties  outward  with  a  mind 

That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays  : 

Or  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me, 

That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 

Might  be  confronted  with  the  match  and  weight 

Of  such  a  winnowed  purity  in  love  — 

How  were  I  then  uplifted  !     But,  alas, 

I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity, 

And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth." 

TROILUS   AND  CRHSSIDA. 


36 


PART  II 

LETTERS  TO  C.  P ,  ESQ. 

Bees -Inn, 

My  good  Friend,  Here  I  am  in  Scot- 
land (and  shall  have  been  here  three  weeks, 
next  Monday)  as  I  may  say,  on  my  probation. 
This  is  a  lone  inn,  but  on  a  great  scale, 
thirty  miles  from  Edinburgh.  It  is  situated 
on  a  rising  ground  (a  mark  for  all  the  winds, 
which  blow  here  incessantly)  —  there  is  a 
woody  hill  opposite,  with  a  winding  valley 
below,  and  the  London  road  stretches  out 
on  either  side.  You  may  guess  which  way  I 
oftenest  walk.  I  have  written  two  letters  to 
S.  L.  and  got  one  cold,  prudish  answer, 
beginning  Sir^  and  ending  From  yours  truly ^ 
.  with  Best  respects  from  herself  and  relations. 
I  was  going  to  give  in,  but  have  returned  an 
answer,  which  I  think  is  a  touch -stone.  I 
send  it  you  on  the  other  side  to  keep  as 
a  curiosity,  in  case  she  kills  me  by  her 
exquisite  rejoinder.  I  am  convinced  from 
the  profound  contemplations  I  have  had  on 
the  subject  here  and  coming  along,  that  I 
am  on  a  wrong  scent.  We  had  a  famous 
parting-scene,  a  complete  quarrel  and  then  a 
reconciliation,  in  which  she  did  beguile  me 


37 


LIBER   AMORIS 

of  my  tears,  but  the  deuce  a  one  did  she 
shed.  What  do  you  think?  She  cajoled 
Hie  out  of  my  little  Buonaparte  as  cleverly 
as  possible,  in  manner  and  form  following. 
She  was  shy  the  Saturday  and  Sunday  (the 
day  of  my  departure)  so  I  got  in  dudgeon, 
and  began  to  rip  up  grievances.  I  asked  her 
how  she  came  to  admit  me  to  such  extreme 
familiarities,  the  first  week  I  entered  the 
house.  "  If  she  had  no  particular  regard  for 
me,  she  must  do  so  (or  more)  with  everyone  : 
if  she  had  a  liking  to  me  from  the  first,  why 
refuse  me  with  scorn  and  wilfulness?"  If 
you  had  seen  how  she  flounced,  and  looked, 
and  went  to  the  door,  saying  "She  was 
obliged  to  me  for  letting  her  know  the  opin- 
ion I  had  always  entertained  of  her  "  —  then 
I  said,  "  Sarah  I "  and  she  came  back  and 
took  my  hand,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
mantelpiece  —  (she  must  have  been  invok  - 
ing  her  idol  then  —  if  I  thought  so,  I  could 
devour  her,  the  darling  —  but  I  doubt  her)  — 
So  I  said  "There  is  one  thing  that  has 
occurred  to  me  sometimes  as  possible,  to 
account  for  your  conduct  to  me  at  first  — 
there  wasn't  a  likeness,  was  there,  to  your 
old  friend  ? "  She  answered  "  No,  none  — 
but  there  was  a  likeness"  —  I  asked,  to 
what  ?  She  said  "  to  that  little  image !  "  I 
said,  "Do  you  mean  Buonaparte?"  —  She 


38 


LIBER    AMORIS 

said  "Yes,  all  but  the  nose."  —  "And  the 
figure  ? "  —  "  He  was  taller."  —  I  could  not 
stand  this.  So  I  got  up  and  took  it,  and 
gave  it  her,  and  after  some  reluctance,  she 
consented  to  "  keep  it  for  me."  What  will 
you  bet  me  that  it  wasn't  all  a  trick  ?  I'll 
tell  you  why  I  suspect  it,  besides  being  fairly 
out  of  my  wits  about  her.  I  had  told  her 
mother  half  an  hour  before,  that  I  should 
take  this  image  and  leave  it  at  Mrs.  B.'s,  for 
that  I  didn't  wish  to  leave  anything  behind 
me  that  must  bring  me  back  again.  Then 
up  she  comes  and  starts  a  likeness  to  her 
lover :  she  knew  I  should  give  it  her  on  the 
spot  —  "No,  she  would  keep  it  for  mel" 
So  I  must  come  back  for  it.  Whether  art 
or  nature,  it  is  sublime.  I  told  her  I  should 
write  and  tell  you  so,  and  that  I  parted  from 
her,  confiding,  adoring  1  —  She  is  beyond  me, 
that's  certain.  Do  go  and  see  her,  and  desire 
her  not  to  give  my  present  address  to  a  sin- 
gle soul,  and  learn  if  the  lodging  is  let,  and 
to  whom.  My  letter  to  her  is  as  follows.  If 
she  shews  the  least  remorse  at  it,  I'll  be 
hanged,  though  it  might  move  a  stone,  I 
modestly   think.     {See  before,  Part  I.  page 

32.) 

N.B.  —  I  have  begun  a  book  of  our  con- 
versations (I  mean  mine  and  the  statue's) 
which  I  call  Liber  Amoris.   I  was  detained 


39 


LIBER    AMORIS 

at  Stamford  and  found  myself  dull,  and 
could  hit  upon  no  other  way  of  employing 
my  time  so  agreeably. 

LETTER  II 

Dear  P ,  Here,  without  loss  of  time, 

in  order  that  I  may  have  your  opinion  upon 
it,  is  little  Yes  and  No's  answer  to  my  last. 

"  Sir,  I  should  not  have  disregarded  your 
injunction  not  to  send  you  any  more  letters 
that  might  come  to  you,  had  I  not  promised 
the  Gentleman  who  left  the  enclosed  to  for- 
ward it  the  earliest  opportunity,  as  he  said 

it  was  of  consequence.     Mr.  P called  the 

day  after  you  left  town.  My  mother  and 
myself  are  much  obliged  by  your  kind  offer 
of  tickets  to  the  play,  but  must  decline 
accepting  it.  My  family  send  their  best 
respects,  in  which  they  are  joined  by 
Yours,  truly, 

S.  L." 

The  deuce  a  bit  more  is  there  of  it.  If 
you  can  make  anything  out  of  it  (or  any 
body  else)  I'll  be  hanged.  You  are  to  under- 
stand, this  comes  in  a  frank,  the  second  I 
have  received  from  her,  with  a  name  I  can't 
make  out,  and  she  won't  tell  me,  though  I 
asked   her,  where  she  got   franks,  as  also 


40 


LIBER    AMORIS 

whether  the  lodgings  were  let,  to  neither  of 
which  a  word  of  answer.  *  *  *  *  is  the 
name  on  the  frank :  see  if  you  can  decypher 
it  by  a  Red -book.  J  suspect  her  grievously 
of  being  an  arrant  jilt,  to  say  no  more  —  yet 
I  love  her  dearly.  Do  you  know  I'm  going 
*  to  write  to  that  sweet  rogue  presently,  hav- 
ing a  whole  evening  to  myself  in  advance  of 
my  work  ?  Now  mark,  before  you  set  about 
your  exposition  of  the  new  Apocalypse  of  the 
new  Calypso,  the  only  thing  to  be  endured  in 
the  above  letter  is  the  date.  It  was  written 
the  very  day  after  she  received  mine.  By 
this  she  seems  willing  to  lose  no  time  in 
receiving  these  letters  "  of  such  sweet  breath 
composed."  If  I  thought  so — but  I  wait  for 
your  reply.  After  all,  what  is  there  in  her 
but  a  pretty  figure,  and  that  you  can't  get  a 
word  out  of  her.?  Hers  is  the  Fabian 
method  of  making  love  and  conquests. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  said  the  night 
before  I  left  her  ? 

"  H.  Could  you  not  come  and  live  with 
me  as  a  friend  ? 

"  S.  I  don't  know  :  and  yet  it  would  be  of 
no  use  if  I  did,  you  would  always  be  hanker- 
ing after  what  could  never  be  1 " 

I  asked  her  if  she  would  do  so  at  once  — 
the  very  next  day  ?  And  what  do  you  guess 
was  her  answer  —  "  Do  you  think  it  would  be 


41 


LIBER    AMORIS 

prudent? "  As  I  didn't  proceed  to  extremi- 
ties on  the  spot,  she  began  to  look  grave, 
and  declare  off.  "  Would  she  live  with  me 
in  her  own  house  —  to  be  with  me  all  day  as 
dear  friends,  if  nothing  more,  to  sit  and  read 
and  talk  with  me  ? "  —  "  She  would  make  no 
promises,  but  I  should  find  her  the  same."  — 
"  Would  she  go  to  the  play  with  me  some- 
times, and  let  it  be  understood  that  I  was 
paying  my  addresses  to  her?"  —  "  She  could 
not,  as  a  habit  —  her  father  was  rather  strict, 
and  would  object."  —  Now  what  am  I  to 
think  of  all  this  ?  Am  I  mad  or  a  fool  ? 
Answer  me  to  that,  Master  Brook  !  You  are 
a  philosopher. 

LETTER  III 

Dear  Friend,  I  ought  to  have  written 
to  you  before ;  but  since  I  received  your 
letter,  I  have  been  in  a  sort  of  purgatory, 
and  what  is  worse,  I  see  no  prospect  of 
getting  out  of  it.  I  would  put  an  end  to  my 
torments  at  once ;  but  I  am  as  great  a  cow- 
ard as  I  have  been  a  dupe.  Do  you  know 
I  have  not  had  a  word  of  answer  from  her 
since !  What  can  be  the  reason  ?  Is  she 
offended  at  my  letting  you  know  she  wrote 
to  me,  or  is  it  some  new  affair  ?  I  wrote  to 
her  in  the  tenderest,  most  respectful  manner. 


42 


LIBER    AMORIS 

poured  my  soul  at  her  feet,  and  this  is  the 
return  she  makes  me !  Can  you  account 
for  it,  except  on  the  admission  of  my  worst 
doubts  concerning  her  ?  Oh  God !  can  I 
bear  after  all  to  think  of  her  so,  or  that  I  am 
scorned  and  made  a  sport  of  by  the  creature 
to  whom  I  had  given  my  whole  heart?  — 
Thus  has  it  been  with  me  all  my  life ;  and 
so  will  it  be  to  the  end  of  it !  —  If  you 
should  learn  anything,  good  or  bad,  tell  me, 
I  conjure  you  :  I  can  bear  anything  but  this 
cruel  suspense.  If  I  knew  she  was  a  mere 
abandoned  creature,  I  should  try  to  forget 
her ;  but  till  I  do  know  this,  nothing  can 
tear  me  from  her,  I  have  drank  in  poison 
from  her  lips  too  long  —  alas!  mine  do  not 
poison  again.  I  sit  and  indulge  my  grief  by 
the  hour  together ;  my  weakness  grows  upon 
me ;  and  I  have  no  hope  left,  unless  I  could 
lose  my  senses  quite.  Do  you  know  I  think 
I  should  like  this  ?  To  forget,  ah !  to  for- 
get —  there  would  be  something  in  that  — 
to  change  to  an  idiot  for  some  few  years, 
and  then  to  wake  up  a  poor  wretched  old 
man,  to  recollect  my  misery  as  past,  and  die  ! 
Yet,  oh  !  with  her,  only  a  little  while  ago,  I 
had  different  hopes,  forfeited  for  nothing 
that  I  know  of  !******  If  you 
can  give  me  any  consolation  on  the  subject 
of  my  tormentor,  pray  do.     The  pain  I  suf- 


43 


LIBER    AMORIS 

fer  wears  me  out  daily.     I  write  this  on  the 

supposition  that  Mrs.  may  still  come 

here,  and  that  I  may  be  detained  some  weeks 
longer.  Direct  to  me  at  the  Post-office ; 
and  if  I  return  to  town  directly  as  I  fear,  I 
will  leave  word  for  them  to  forward  the 
letter  to  me  in  London  —  not  at  my  old 
lodgings.  I  will  not  go  back  there  :  yet  how 
can  I  breathe  away  from  her  ?  Her  hatred 
of  me  must  be  great,  since  my  love  of  her 
could  not  overcome  it !  I  have  finished  the 
book  of  my  conversations  with  her,  which  I 
told  you  of :  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  will 
think  it  very  nice  reading. 

Yours  ever. 

Have  you  read  Sardanapalus  ?     How  like 
the  little  Greek  slave,  Myrrha,  is  to  her  I 


LETTER  IV 

( Written  in  the  Winter) 

My  good  Friend,  I  received  your  letter 
this  morning,  and  I  kiss  the  rod  not  only  with 
submission,  but  gratitude.  Your  reproofs 
of  me  and  your  defences  of  her  are  the  only 
things  that  save  my  soul  from  perdition. 
She  is  my  heart's  idol ;  and  believe  me  those 
words  of  yours  applied  to  the  dear  saint  — 


44 


LIBER    AMORIS 

"  To  lip  a  chaste  one  and  suppose  her  wan- 
ton " —  were  balm  and  rapture  to  me.  I 
have  lipped  her^  God  knows  how  often,  and 
oh  1  is  it  even  possible  that  she  is  chaste,  and 
that  she  has  bestowed  her  loved  "endear- 
ments **  on  me  (her  own  sweet  word)  out  of 
true  regard  ?  That  thought,  out  of  the 
lowest  depths  of  despair,  would  at  any  time 
make  me  strike  my  forehead  against  the 
stars.  Could  I  but  think  the  love  "  honest,'* 
I  am  proof  against  all  hazards.  She  by  her 
silence  makes  my  dark  hour ;  and  you  by 
your  encouragements  dissipate  it  for  twenty- 
four  hours.     Another  thing  has  brought  me 

to  life.    Mrs. is  actually  on  her  way  here 

about  the  divorce.  Should  this  unpleasant 
business  (which  has  been  so  long  talked  of) 
succeed,  and  I  should  become  free,  do  you 
think  S.  L.  will  agree  to  change  her  name  to 

?     If  she  w/7/,  she  shall;  and  to  call 

her  so  to  you,  or  to  hear  her  called  so  by 
others,  would  be  music  to  my  ears,  such  as 
they  never  drank  in.  Do  you  think  if  she 
knew  how  I  love  her,  my  depressions  and 
my  altitudes,  my  wanderings  and  my  con- 
stancy, it  would  not  move  her  }  She  knows 
it  all ;  and  if  she  is  not  an  incorrigible^  she 
loves  me,  or  regards  me  with  a  feeling  next 
to  love.  I  don't  believe  that  any  woman 
was  ever   courted   more   passionately   than 


45 


LIBER    AMORIS 

she  has  been  by  me.  As  Rousseau  said  of 
Madame  d'Houptot  (forgive  the  allusion) 
my  heart  has  found  a  tongue  in  speaking  to 
her,  and  I  have  talked  to  her  the  divine 
language  of  love.  Yet  she  says,  she  is 
insensible  to  it.  Am  I  to  believe  her  or 
you?  You  —  for  I  wish  it  and  wish  it  to 
madness,  now  that  I  am  like  to  be  free,  and 
to  have  it  in  my  power  to  say  to  her  without 
a  possibility  of  suspicion,  **  Sarah,  will  you 
be  mine.?"  When  I  sometimes  think  of 
the  time  I  first  saw  the  sweet  apparition, 
August  i6,  1820,  and  that  possibly  she  may 
be  my  bride  before  that  day  two  years,  it 
makes  me  dizzy  with  incredible  joy  and  love 
of  her.     Write  soon. 

LETTER  V 

My  dear  Friend,  I  read  your  answer 
this  morning  with  gratitude.  I  have  felt 
somewhat  easier  since.  It  shewed  your  inter- 
est in  my  vexations,  and  also  that  you  know 
nothing  worse  than  I  do.  I  cannot  describe 
the  weakness  of  mind  to  which  she  has 
reduced  me.  This  state  of  suspense  is  like 
hanging  in  the  air  by  a  single  thread  that 
exhausts  all  your  strength  to  keep  hold  of 
it;  and  yet  if  that  fails  you,  you  have  noth- 
ing in  the  world  else  left  to  trust  to.     I  am 


46 


LIBER    AMORIS 

come  back  to  Edinburgh  about  this  cursed 

business,    and   Mrs.   is    coming  from 

Montrose  next  week.  How  it  will  end,  I 
can't  say;  and  don't  care,  except  as  it 
regards  the  other  affair.  I  should,  I  confess, 
like  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  make  her  the 
offer  direct  and  unequivocal,  to  see  how 
she'd  receive  it.  It  would  be  worth  some- 
thing at  any  rate  to  see  her  superfine  airs 
upon  the  occasion ;  and  if  she  should  take 
it  into  her  head  to  turn  round  her  sweet 
neck,  drop  her  eye-lids,  and  say  —  *'  Yes,  I 
will  be  yours !  "  —  why  then,  "  treason  domes- 
tic, foreign  levy,  nothing  could  touch  me 
further."  By  Heaven  !  I  doat  on  her.  The 
truth  is,  I  never  had  any  pleasure,  like  love, 
with  any  one  but  her.  Then  how  can  I  bear 
to  part  with  her?  Do  you  know  I  like  to 
think  of  her  best  in  her  morning-gown  and 
mob-cap  —  it  is  so  she  has  oftenest  come 
into  my  room  and  enchanted  me !  She  was 
once  ill,  pale,  and  had  lost  all  her  freshness. 
I  only  adored  her  the  more  for  it,  and  fell  in 
love  with  the  decay  of  her  beauty.  I  could 
devour  the  little  witch.  If  she  had  a  plague- 
spot  on  her,  I  could  touch  the  infection  :  if 
she  was  in  a  burning  fever,  I  could  kiss  her, 
and  drink  death  as  I  have  drank  life  from 
her  lips.  When  I  press  her  hand,  I  enjoy 
perfect  happiness  and  contentment  of  soul. 


47 


LIBER    AMORIS 

It  is  not  what  she  says  or  what  she  does  — 
it  is  herself  that  I  love.  To  be  with  her  is 
to  be  at  peace.  ,  I  have  no  other  wish  or 
desire.  The  air  about  her  is  serene,  blissful ; 
and  he  who  breathes  it  is  like  one  of  the 
Gods !  So  that  I  can  but  have  her  with  me 
always,  I  care  for  nothing  more.  I  never 
could  tire  of  her  sweetness;  I  feel  that 
I  could  grow  to  her,  body  and  soul  ?  My 
heart,  my  heart  is  hers. 

LETTER  VI 

( Written  in  May) 

Dear  P ,  What  have  I  suffered  since 

I  parted  with  you  1  A  raging  fire  is  in 
my  heart  and  in  my  brain,  that  never  quits 
me.  The  steam -boat  (which  I  foolishly  ven- 
tured on  board)  seems  a  prison-house,  a  sort 
of  spectre-ship,  moving  on  through  an  infer- 
nal lake,  without  wind  or  tide,  by  some 
necromantic  power  —  the  splashing  of  the 
waves,  the  noise  of  the  engine  gives  me  no 
rest,  night  or  day  —  no  tree,  no  natural 
object  varies  the  scene  —  but  the  abyss  is 
before  me,  and  all  my  peace  lies  weltering  in 
it !  I  feel  the  eternity  of  punishment  in  this 
life  ;  for  I  see  no  end  of  my  woes.  The 
people    about    me    are   ill,    uncomfortable, 


48 


LIBER    AMORIS 

wretched  enough,  many  of  them  —  but 
to-morrow  or  next  day,  they  reach  the  place 
of  their  destination,  and  all  will  be  new  and 
delightful.  To  me  it  will  be  the  same.  I 
can  neither  escape  from  her,  nor  from 
myself.  All  is  endurable  where  there  is  a 
limit :  but  I  have  nothing  but  the  blackness 
and  the  fiendishness  of  scorn  around  me  — 
mocked  by  her  (the  false  one)  in  whom  I 
placed  my  hope,  and  who  hardens  herself 
against  me !  —  I  believe  you  thought  me 
quite  gay,  vain,  insolent,  half  mad,  the  night 
I  left  the  house  —  no  tongue  can  tell  the 
heaviness  of  heart  I  felt  at  that  moment. 
No  footsteps  ever  fell  more  slow,  more  sad 
than  mine;  for  every  step  bore  me  farther 
from  her,  with  whom  my  soul  and  every 
thought  lingered.  I  had  parted  with  her  in 
anger,  and  each  had  spoken  words  of  high 
disdain,  not  soon  to  be  forgiven.  Should  I 
ever  behold  her  again  ?  Where  go  to  live 
and  die  far  from  her?  In  her  sight  there 
was  Elysium ;  her  smile  was  heaven ;  her 
voice  was  enchantment;  the  air  of  love 
waved  round  her,  breathing  balm  into  my 
heart :  for  a  little  while  I  had  sat  with  the 
Gods  at  their  golden  tables,  I  had  tasted  of 
all  earth's  bliss,  "both  living  and  loving  1" 
But  now  Paradise  barred  its  doors  against 
me ;  I  was  driven  from  her  presence,  where 


49 


LIBER    AMORIS 

rosy  blushes  and  delicious  sighs  and  all  soft 
wishes  dwelt,  the  outcast  of  nature  and  the 
scoff  of  love !  I  thought  of  the  time  when  I 
was  a  little  happy  careless  child,  of  my 
father's  house,  of  my  early  lessons,  of  my 
brother's  picture  of  me  when  a  boy,  of  all 
that  had  since  happened  to  me,  and  of  the 
waste  of  years  to  come  —  I  stopped,  fault- 
ered,  and  was  going  to  turn  back  once  more 
to  make  a  longer  truce  with  wretchedness 
and  patch  up  a  hollow  league  with  love, 
when  the  recollection  of  her  words  —  "I 
always  told  you  I  had  no  affection  for  you  " 
— steeled  my  resolution,  and  I  determined 
to  proceed.  You  see  by  this  she  always 
hated  me,  and  only  played  with  my  credulity 
till  she  could  find  some  one  to  supply  the 
place  of  her  unalterable  attachment  to  the 
little  image.  *****!  am  a  little,  a  very 
little  better  to-day.  Would  it  were  quietly 
over;  and  that  this  misshapen  form  (made 
to  be  mocked)  were  hid  out  of  the  sight  of 
cold,  sullen  eyes!  The  people  about  me 
even  take  notice  of  my  dumb  despair,  and 
pity  me.  What  is  to  be  done?  I  cannot 
forget  her;  and  I  can  find  no  other  like 
what  she  seemed.  I  should  wish  you  to  call, 
if  you  can  make  an  excuse,  and  see  whether 
or  no  she  is  quite  marble  —  whether  I  may 
go  back  again  at  my  return,  and  whether 


50 


LIBER    AMORIS 

she  will  see  me  and  talk  to  me  sometimes 
as  an  old  friend.     Suppose  you  were  to  call 

on  M from  me,  and  ask  him  what  his 

impression  is  that  I  ought  to  do.     But  do  as 
you  think  best.     Pardon,  pardon. 

P.S.  —  I  send  this  from  Scarborough, 
where  the  vessel  stops  for  a  few  minutes.  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  should  have  done,  but 
for  this  relief  to  my  feelings. 

LETTER  VII 

My  dear  Friend,  The  important  step 
is  taken,  and  I  am  virtually  a  free  man.  *  *  * 
What  had  I  better  do  in  these  circumstances  ? 
I  dare  not  write  to  her,  I  dare  not  write  to 
her  father,  or  else  I  would.  She  has  shot 
me  through  with  poisoned  arrows,  and  I 
think  another  "  winged  wound  "  would  finish 
me.  It  is  a  pleasant  sort  of  balm  (as  you 
express  it)  she  has  left  in  my  heart!  One 
thing  I  agree  with  you  in,  it  will  remain 
there  for  ever;  but  yet  not  very  long.  It 
festers,  and  consumes  me.  If  it  were  not  for 
my  little  boy,  whose  face  I  see  struck  blapk 
at  the  news,  looking  through  the  world  for 
pity  and  meeting  with  contempt  instead,  I 
should  soon,  I  fear,  settle  the  question  by 
my  death.  That  recollection  is  the  only 
thought  that  brings  my  wandering  reason  to 


51 


LIBER    AMORIS 

an  anchor ;  that  stirs  the  smallest  interest  in 
me ;  or  gives  me  fortitude  to  bear  up  against 
what  I  am  doomed  to  feel  for  the  ungrateful. 
Otherwise,  I  am  dead  to  every  thing  but  the 
sense  of  what  I  have  lost.  She  was  my  life 
—  it  is  gone  from  me,  and  I  am  grown  spec- 
tral! If  I  find  myself  in  a  place  I  am 
acquainted  with,  it  reminds  me  of  her,  of  the 
way  in  which  I  thought  of  her, 

"and  carved  on  every  tree 

The  soft,  the  fair,  the  inexpressive  she  !  " 

If  it  is  a  place  that  is  new  to  me,  it  is  deso- 
late, barren  of  all  interest;  for  nothing 
touches  me  but  what  has  a  reference  to  her. 
If  the  clock  strikes,  the  sound  jars  me ;  a 
million  of  hours  will  not  bring  back  peace 
to  my  breast.  The  light  startles  me;  the 
darkness  terrifies  me.  I  seem  falling  into  a 
pit,  without  a  hand  to  help  me.  She  has 
deceived  me,  and  the  earth  fails  from  under 
my  feet ;  no  object  in  nature  is  substantial, 
real,  but  false  and  hollow,  like  her  faith  on 
which  I  built  my  trust.  She  came  (I  knew 
not  how)  and  sat  by  my  side  and  was  folded 
in  my  arms,  a  vision  of  love  and  joy,  as  if 
she  had  dropped  from  the  Heavens  to  bless 
me  by  some  especial  dispensation  of  a 
favouring  Providence,  and  make  me  amends 
for  all ;  and  now  without  any  fault  of  mine 


52 


LIBER    AMORIS 

but  too  much  fondness,  she  has  vanished 
from  me,  and  I  am  left  to  perish.  My  heart 
is  torn  out  of  me,  with  every  feeling  for 
which  I  wished  to  live.  The  whole  is  like  a 
dream,  an  effect  of  enchantment ;  it  torments 
me,  and  it  drives  me  mad.  I  lie  down  with 
it ;  I  rise  up  with  it ;  and  see  no  chance  of 
repose.  I  grasp  at  a  shadow,  I  try  to  undo 
the  past,  and  weep  with  rage  and  pity  over' 
my  own  w^eakness  and  misery.  I  spared 
her  again  and  again  (fool  that  I  was)  think- 
ing what  she  allowed  from  me  was  love, 
friendship,  sweetness,  not  wantonness.  How 
could  I  doubt  it,  looking  in  her  face,  and 
hearing  her  words,  like  sighs  breathed  from 
the  gentlest  of  all  bosoms  ?  I  had  hopes,  I 
had  prospects  to  come,  the  flattery  of  some- 
thing like  fame,  a  pleasure  in  writing,  health 
even  would  have  come  back  with  her  smile 
—  she  has  blighted  all,  turned  all  to  poison 
and  childish  tears.  Yet  the  barbed  arrow 
is  in  my  heart  —  I  can  neither  endure  it, 
nor  draw  it  out ;  for  with  it  flows  my  life's- 
blood.  I  had  conversed  too  long  with 
abstracted  truth  to  trust  myself  with  the 
immortal  thoughts  of  love.  That  S.  L. 
might  have  been  mine,  and  now  never  can  — 
these  are  the  two  sole  propositions  that  for 
ever  stare  me  in  the  face,  and  look  ghastly 
in  at  my  poor  brain.     I  am  in  some  sense 


S3 


LIBER    AMORIS 

proud  that  I  can  feel  this  dreadful  passion 
—  it  gives  me  a  kind  of  rank  in  the  kingdom 
of  love  —  but  I  could  have  wished  it  had 
been  for  an  object  that  at  least  could  have 
understood  its  value  and  pitied  its  excess. 
You  say  her  not  coming  to  rtie  door  when 
you  went  is  a  proof  —  yes,  that  her  comple- 
ment is  at  present  full !  That  is  the  reason 
she  doesn't  want  me  there,  lest  I  should 
discover  the  new  affair  —  wretch  that  I  am! 
Another  has  possession  of  her,  oh  Hell! 
I'm  satisfied  of  it  from  her  manner,  which 
had  a  wanton  insolence  in  it.  Well  might 
I  run  wild  when  I  received  no  letters  from 
her.  I  foresaw,  I  felt  my  fate.  The  gates 
of  Paradise  were  once  open  to  me  too,  and 
I  blushed  to  enter  but  with  the  golden  keys 
of  love  1  I  would  die ;  but  her  lover  —  my 
love  of  her  —  ought  not  to  die.  When  I 
am  dead,  who  will  love  her  as  I  have  done  ? 
If  she  should  be  in  misfortune,  who  will 
comfort  her?  when  she  is  old,  who  will 
look  in  her  face,  and  bless  her?      Would 

there  be  any  harm  in  calling  upon  M , 

to  know  confidentially  if  he  thinks  it  worth 
my  while  to  make  her  an  offer  the  instant  it 
is  in  my  power  ?  Let  me  have  an  answer, 
and  save  me,  if  possible,  for  her  and  from 
myself. 


54 


LIBER    AMORIS 

LETTER  VIII 

My  dear  Friend,  Your  letter  raised  me 
for  a  moment  from  the  depths  of  despair; 
but  not  hearing  from  you  yesterday  or  to-day 
(as  I  hoped)  I  have  had  a  relapse.  You  say 
I  want  to  get  rid  of  her.  I  hope  you  are 
more  right  in  your  conjectures  about  her 
than  in  this  about  me.  Oh  no !  believe  it,  I 
love  her  as  I  do  my  own  soul ;  my  very  heart 
is  wedded  to  her  (be  she  what  she  may)  and 
I  would  not  hesitate  a  moment  between  her 
and  "an  angel  from  Heaven."  I  grant  all 
you  say  about  myself-tormenting  folly:  but 
has  it  been  without  cause?  Has  she  not 
refused  me  again  and  again  with  a  mixture  of 
scorn  and  resentment,  after  going  the  utmost 
lengths  with  a  man  for  whom  she  now  dis- 
claims all  affection ;  and  what  security  can  I 
have  for  her  reserve  with  others,  who  will 
not  be  restrained  by  feelings  of  delicacy 
towards  her,  and  whom  she  has  probably 
preferred  to  me  for  their  want  of  it.  "  She 
can  make  no  more  confidences'*'' — these  words 
ring  for  ever  in  my  ears,  and  will  be  my 
death-watch.  They  can  have  but  one  mean  - 
ing,  be  sure  of  it  —  she  always  expressed 
herself  with  the  exactest  propriety.  That 
was  one  of  the  things  for  which  I  loved  her 
—  shall  I  live  to  hate  her  for  it  ?     My  poor 


55 


LIBER    AMORIS 

fond  heart,  that  brooded  over  her  and  the 
remains  of  her  affections  as  my  only  hope  of 
comfort  upon  earth,  cannot  brook  this  new 
degradation.  Who  is  there  so  low  as  me  ? 
Who  is  there  besides  (I  ask)  after  the  hom- 
age I  have  paid  her  and  the  caresses  she  has 
lavished  on  me,  so  vile,  so  abhorrent  to  love, 
to  whom  such  an  indignity  could  have  hap- 
pened ?  When  I  think  of  this  (and  I  think 
of  nothing  else)  it  stifles  me.  I  am  pent  up 
in  burning,  fruitless  desires,  which  can  find 
no  vent  or  object.  Am  I  not  hated,  repulsed, 
derided  by  her  whom  alone  I  love  or  ever 
did  love  ?  I  cannot  stay  in  any  place,  and 
seek  in  vain  for  relief  from  the  sense  of  her 
contempt  and  her  ingratitude.  I  can  settle  to 
nothing :  what  is  the  use  of  all  I  have  done  ? 
Is  it  not  that  very  circumstance  (my  thinking 
beyond  my  strength,  my  feeling  more  than  I 
need  about  so  many  things)  that  has  withered 
me  up,  and  made  me  a  thing  for  Love  to 
shrink  from  and  wonder  at?  Who  could 
ever  feel  that  peace  from  the  touch  of  her 
dear  hand  that  I  have  done;  and  is  it  not 
torn  from  me  for  ever?  My  state  is  this, 
that  I  shall  never  lie  down  again  at  night 
nor  rise  up  in  the  morning  in  peace,  nor  ever 
behold  my  little  boy's  face  with  pleasure 
while  I  live  —  unless  I  am  restored  to  her 
favour.     Instead  of  that  delicious  feeling  I 


S6 


LIBER    AMORIS 

had  when  she  was  heavenly  -kind  to  me,  and 
my  heart  softened  and  melted  in  its  own 
tenderness  and  her  sweetness,  I  am  now 
inclosed  in  a  dungeon  of  despair.  The  sky 
is  marble  to  my  thoughts ;  nature  is  dead 
around  me,  as  hope  is  within  me ;  no  object 
can  give  me  one  gleam  of  satisfaction  now, 
nor  the  prospect  of  it  in  time  to  come.  I 
wander  by  the  sea -side ;  and  the  eternal 
ocean  and  lasting  despair  and  her  face  are 
before  me.  Slighted  by  her,  on  whom  my 
heart  by  its  last  fibre  hung,  where  shall  I 
turn  ?  I  wake  with  her  by  my  side,  not  as 
my  sweet  bedfellow,  but  as  the  corpse  of  my 
love,  without  a  heart  in  her  bosom,  cold, 
•  insensible,  or  struggling  from  me ;  and  the 
worm  gnaws  me,  and  the  sting  of  unre- 
quited love,  and  the  canker  of  a  hopeless, 
endless  sorrow.  I  have  lost  the  taste  of  my 
food  by  feverish  anxiety ;  and  my  favourite 
beverage,  which  used  to  refresh  me  when  I  got 
up,  has  no  moisture  in  it.  Oh  !  cold,  solitary, 
sepulchral  breakfasts,  compared  with  those 
which  I  promised  myself  with  her ;  or  which 
I  made  when  she  had  been  standing  an  hour 
by  my  side,  my  guardian-angel,  my  wife,  my 
sister,  my  sweet  friend,  my  Eve,  my  all ;  and 
had  blest  me  with  her  seraph  kisses !  Ah ! 
what  I  suffer  at  present  only  shews  what  I 
have  enjoyed.     But  "  the  girl  is  a  good  girl. 


57 


LIBER    AMORIS 

if  there  is  goodness  in  human  nature."  I 
thank  you  for  those  words ;  and  I  will  fall 
down  and  worship  you,  if  you  can  prove 
them  true:  and  I  would  not  do  much  less 
for  him  that  proves  her  a  demon.  She  is 
one  or  the  other,  that's  certain ;  but  I  fear 
the  worst.  Do  let  me  know  if  anything  has 
passed:  suspense  is  my  greatest  punishment. 
I  am  going  into  the  country  to  see  if  I  can 
work  a  little  in  the  three  weeks  I  have  yet  to 
stay  here.  Write  on  the  receipt  of  this,  and 
believe  me  ever  your  unspeakably  obliged 
friend. 

TO  EDINBURGH 

"  Stony-hearted  "  Edinburgh  !  What 

art  thou  to  me  ?  The  dust  of  thy  streets 
mingles  with  my  tears  and  blinds  me.  City 
of  palaces,  or  of  tombs — a  quarry,  rather 
than  the  habitation  of  men !  Art  thou  like 
London,  that  populous  hive,  with  its  sun- 
burnt, well -baked,  brick-built  houses  —  its 
public  edifices,  its  theatres,  its  bridges,  its 
squares,  its  ladies,  and  its  pomp,  its  throng 
of  wealth,  its  outstretched  magnitude,  and 
its  mighty  heart  that  never  lies  still  ?  Thy 
cold  grey  walls  reflect  back  the  leaden  mel- 
ancholy of  the  soul.  The  square,  hard- 
edged,  unyielding  faces  of  thy  inhabitants 


58 


LIBER    AMORIS 

have  no  sympathy  to  impart.  What  is  it 
to  me  that  I  look  along  the  level  line  of 
thy  tenantless  streets,  and  meet  perhaps  a 
lawyer  like  a  grasshopper  chirping  and  skip- 
ping, or  the  daughter  of  a  Highland  laird, 
haughty,  fair,  and  freckled  ?  Or  why  should 
I  look  down  your  boasted  Prince's  Street, 
with  the  beetle-browed  Castle  on  one  side, 
and  the  Calton  Hill  with  its  proud  mon- 
ument at  the  further  end,  and  the  ridgy 
steep  of  Salisbury  Crag,  cut  off  abruptly  by 
Nature's  boldest  hand,  and  Arthur's  Seat 
overlooking  all,  like  a  lioness  watching  her 
cubs  ?  Or  shall  I  turn  to  the  far-off  Pent- 
land  Hills,  with  Craig-Crook  nestling  beneath 
them,  where  lives  the  prince  of  critics  and 
the  king  of  men  ?  Or  cast  my  eye  unsated 
over  the  Frith  of  Forth,  that  from  my  win- 
dow of  an  evening  (as  I  read  of  Amy  and 
her  love)  glitters  like  a  broad  golden  mirror 
in  the  sun,  and  kisses  the  winding  shores  of 
kingly  Fife  ?  Oh  no !  But  to  thee,  to  thee 
I  turn.  North  Berwick-Law,  with  thy  blue 
cone  rising  out  of  summer  seas ;  for  thou  art 
the  beacon  of  my  banished  thoughts,  and 
dost  point  my  way  to  her,  who  is  my  heart's 
true  home.  The  air  is  too  thin  for  me,  that 
has  not  the  breath  of  Love  in  it ;  that  is  not 
embalmed  by  her  sighs ! 


59 


LIBER   AMORIS 

A  THOUGHT 

I  AM  not  mad,  but  my  heart  is  so;  and 
raves  within  me,  fierce  and  untameable,  like 
a  panther  in  its  den,  and  tries  to  get  loose 
to  its  lost  mate,  and  fawn  on  her  hand,  and 
bend  lowly  at  her  feet. 


Oh !  thou  dumb  heart,  lonely,  sad,  shut 
up  in  the  prison-house  of  this  rude  form, 
that  hast  never  found  a  fellow  but  for  an 
instant,  and  in  very  mockery  of  thy  misery, 
speak,  find  bleeding  words  to  express  thy 
thoughts,  break  thy  dungeon -gloom,  or  die 
pronouncing  thy  Infelice's  name ! 


Within  my  heart  is  lurking  suspicion,  and 
base  fear,  and  shame  and  hate ;  but  above 
all,  tyrannous  love  sits  throned,  crowned 
with  her  graces,  silent  and  in  tears. 

LETTER  IX 

My   dear   P ,   You   have   been  very 

kind  to  me  in  this  business  ;  but  I  fear  even 
your  indulgence  for  my  infirmities  is  begin- 
ning to  fail.  To  what  a  state  am  I  reduced, 
and  for  what  ?     For  fancying  a  little  artful 


60 


LIBER    AMORIS 

vixen  to  be  an  angel  and  a  saint,  because 
she  affected  to  look  like  one,  to  hide  her 
rank  thoughts  and  deadly  purposes.  Has 
she  not  murdered  me  under  the  mask  of  the 
tenderest  friendship  ?  And  why  ?  Because 
I  have  loved  her  with  unutterable  love,  and 
sought  to  make  her  my  wife.  You  say  it  is 
my  own  "  outrageous  conduct "  that  has 
estranged  her:  nay,  I  have  been  too  gentle 
with  her.  I  ask  you  first  in  candour  whether 
the  ambiguity  of  her  behaviour  with  respect 
to  me,  sitting  and  fondling  a  man  (circum- 
stanced as  I  was)  sometimes  for  half  a  day 
together,  and  then  declaring  she  had  no  love 
for  him  beyond  common  regard,  and  profess- 
ing never  to  marry,  was  not  enough  to  excite 
my  suspicions,  which  the  different  exposures 
from  the  conversations  below -stairs  were  not 
calculated  to  allay?  I  ask  you  what  you 
yourself  would  have  felt  or  done,  if  loving 
her  as  I  did,  you  had  heard  what  I  did,  time 
after  time  ?  Did  not  her  mother  own  to  one 
of  the  grossest  charges  (which  I  shall  not 
repeat)  —  and  is  such  indelicacy  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  her  pretended  character  (that 
character  with  which  I  fell  in  love,  and  to 
which  I  made  love)  without  supposing  her  to 
be  the  greatest  hypocrite  in  the  world .?  My 
unpardonable  offence  has  been  that  I  took 
her  at  her  word,  and  was  willing  to  believe 


6[ 


LIBER    AMORIS 

her  the  precise  little  puritanical  person  she 
set  up  for.  After  exciting  her  wayward 
desires  by  the  fondest  embraces  and  the 
purest  kisses,  as  if  she  had  been  "  made  my 
wedded  wife  yestreen,"  or  was  to  become  so 
to-morrow  (for  that  was  always  my  feeling 
with  respect  to  her)  —  I  did  not  proceed  to 
gratify  them,  or  to  follow  up  my  advantage 
by  any  action  which  should  declare,  **  I  think 
you  a  common  adventurer,  and  will  see 
whether  you  are  so  or  not !  *'  Yet  any  one 
but  a  credulous  fool  like  me  would  have 
made  the  experiment,  with  whatever  violence 
to  himself,  as  a  matter  of  life  and  death  ;  for 
I  had  every  reason  to  distrust  appearances. 
Her  conduct  has  been  of  a  piece  from  the 
beginning.  In  the  midst  of  her  closest  and 
falsest  endearments,  she  has  always  (with 
one  or  two  exceptions)  disclaimed  the  nat- 
ural inference  to  be  drawn  from  them,  and 
made  a  verbal  reservation,  by  which  she 
might  lead  me  on  in  a  Fool's  Paradise,  and 
make  me  the  tool  of  her  levity,  her  avarice, 
and  her  love  of  intrigue  as  long  as  she  liked, 
and  dismiss  me  whenever  it  suited  her. 
This,  you  see,  she  has  done,  because  my 
intentions  grew  serious,  and  if  complied 
with,  would  deprive  her  of  the  pleasures  of  a 
single  life!  Offer  marriage  to  this  "trades- 
man's daughter,  who  has  as  nice  a  sense  of 


62 


LIBER    AMORIS 

honour  as  any  one  can  have ; "  and  like 
Lady  Bellaston  in  Tom  Jones^  she  cuts  you 
mmediately  in  a  fit  of  abhorrence  and  alarm. 
Yet  she  seemed  to  be  of  a  different  mind 
formerly,  when  struggling  from  me  in  the 
height  of  our  first  intimacy,  she  exclaimed  — 
"  However  I  might  agree  to  my  own  ruin,  I 
never  will  consent  to  bring  disgrace  upon 
my  family !  "  That  I  should  have  spared  the 
traitress  after  expressions  like  this,  aston- 
ishes me  when  I  look  back  upon  it.  Yet  if 
it  were  all  to  do  over  again,  I  know  I  should 
act  just  the  same  part.  Such  is  her  power 
over  me !  I  cannot  run  the  least  risk  of 
offending  her  —  I  love  her  so.  When  I 
look  in  her  face,  I  cannot  doubt  her  truth  ! 
Wretched  being  that  I  am  !  I  have  thrown 
away  my  heart  and  soul  upon  an  unfeeling 
girl;  and  my  life  (that  might  have  been  so 
happy,  had  she  been  what  I  thought  her) 
will  soon  follow  either  voluntarily,  or  by  the 
force  of  grief,  remorse,  and  disappointment. 
I  cannot  get  rid  of  the  reflection  for  an 
instant,  nor  even  seek  relief  from  its  galling 
pressure.  Ah !  what  a  heart  she  has  lost ! 
All  the  love  and  affection  of  my  whole  life 
were  centred  in  her,  who  alone,  I  thought, 
of  all  women  had  found  out  my  true  charac- 
ter, and  knew  how  to  value  my  tenderness. 
Alas !  alas  !  that  this,  the  only  hope,  joy,  or 


63 


LIBER    AMORIS 

comfort  I  ever  had,  should  turn  to  a  mock- 
ery, and  hang  like  an  ugly  film  over  the 
remainder  of  my  days !  —  I  was  at  Roslin 
Castle  yesterday.  It  lies  low  in  a  rude,  but 
sheltered  valley,  hid  from  the  vulgar  gaze, 
and  powerfully  reminds  one  of  the  old  song. 
The  straggling  fragments  of  the  russet  ruins, 
suspended  smiling  and  graceful  in  the  air  as 
if  they  would  linger  out  another  century  to 
please  the  curious  beholder,  the  green  larch- 
trees  trembling  between  with  the  blue  sky 
and  white  silver  clouds,  the  wild  mountain 
plants  starting  out  here  and  there,  the  date 
of  the  year  on  an  old  low  door-way,  but  still 
more,  the  beds  of  flowers  in  orderly  decay, 
that  seem  to  have  no  hand  to  tend  them,  but 
keep  up  a  sort  of  traditional  remembrance 
of  civilization  in  former  ages,  present  alto- 
gether a  delightful  and  amiable  subject  for 
contemplation.  The  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
scene,  with  the  thought  of  what  I  should 
feel,  should  I  ever  be  restored  to  her,  and 
have  to  lead  her  through  such  places  as  my 
adored,  my  angel -wife,  almost  drove  me 
beside  myself.  For  this  picture,  this  ecstatic 
vision,  what  have  I  of  late  instead  as  the 
image  of  the  reality?  Demoniacal  posses- 
sions. I  see  the  young  witch  seated  in 
another's  lap,  twining  her  serpent  arms 
round  him,  her  eye  glancing  and  her  cheeks 


64 


LIBER    AMORIS 

on  fire  —  why  does  not  the  hideous  thought 
choke  me?  Or  why  do  I  not  go  and  find 
out  the  truth  at  once  ?  The  moonlight 
streams  over  the  silver  waters :  the  bark  is 
in  the  bay  that  might  waft  me  to  her,  almost 
with  a  wish.  The  mountain-breeze  sighs  out 
her  name :  old  ocean  with  a  world  of  tears 
murmurs  back  my  woes !  Does  not  my 
heart  yearn  to  be  with  her ;  and  shall  I  not 
follow  its  bidding  ?  No,  I  must  wait  till  I 
am  free ;  and  then  I  will  take  my  Freedom 
(a  glad  prize)  and  lay  it  at  her  feet  and  tell 
her  my  proud  love  of  her  that  would  not 
brook  a  rival  in  her  dishonour,  and  that 
would  have  her  all  or  none,  and  gain  her  or 
lose  myself  for  ever !  — 

You  see  by  this  letter  the  way  I  am  in, 
and  I  hope  you  will  excuse  it  as  the  picture 
of  a  half-disordered  mind.  The  least  respite 
from  my  uneasiness  (such  as  I  had  yester- 
day) only  brings  the  contrary  reflection  back 
upon  me,  like  a  flood ;  and  by  letting  me  see 
the  happiness  I  have  lost,  makes  me  feel, 
by  contrast,  more  acutely  what  I  am  doomed 
to  bear. 

LETTER  X 

Dear  Friend,  Here  I  am  at  St.  Bees 
once  more,  amid  the  scenes  which  I  greeted 
in   their  barrenness   in   winter;   but   which 


6s 


LIBER    AMORIS 

have  now  put  on  their  full  green  attire  that 
shews  luxuriant  to  the  eye,  but  speaks  a  tale 
of  sadness  to  this  heart  widowed  of  its  last, 
its  dearest,  its  only  hope !  Oh  !  lovely  Bees- 
Inn  1  here  I  composed  a  volume  of  law-cases, 
here  I  wrote  my  enamoured  follies  to  her, 
thinking  her  human,  and  that  "  all  below 
was  not  the  fiend's  "  —  here  I  got  two  cold, 
sullen  answers  from  the  little  witch,  and  here 

I    was    and    I    was    damned.     I 

thought  the  revisiting  the  old  haunts  would 
have  soothed  me  for  a  time,  but  it  only 
brings  back  the  sense  of  what  I  have  suf- 
fered for  her  and  of  her  unkindness  the 
more  strongly,  till  I  cannot  endure  the  rec- 
ollection. I  eye  the  Heavens  in  dumb 
despair,  or  vent  my  sorrows  in  the  desart 
air.  "  To  the  winds,  to  the  waves,  to  the 
rocks  I  complain  "  —  you  may  suppose  with 
what  effect  1  I  fear  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
return.  I  am  tossed  about  (backwards  and 
forwards)  by  my  passion,  so  as  to  become 
ridiculous.  I  can  now  understand  how  it  is 
that  mad  people  never  remain  in  the  same 
place  —  they  are  moving  on  for  ever,  from 
themselves  ! 

Do  you  know,  you  would  have  been 
delighted  with  the  effect  of  the  Northern 
twilight  on  this  romantic  country  as  I  rode 
along  last  night  ?     The  hills  and  groves  and 


66 


LIBER    AMORIS 

herds  of  cattle  were  seen  reposing  in  the 
grey  dawn  of  midnight,  as  in  a  moonlight 
without  shadow.  The  whole  wide  canopy 
of  Heaven  shed  its  reflex  light  upon  them, 
like  a  pure  crystal  mirror.  No  sharp  points, 
no  petty  details,  no  hard  contrasts  —  every 
object  was  seen  softened  yet  distinct,  in  its 
simple  outline  and  natural  tones,  transparent 
with  an  inward  light,  breathing  its  own  mild 
lustre.  The  landscape  altogether  was  like 
an  airy  piece  of  mosaic -work,  or  like  one  of 
Poussin's  broad  massy  landscapes  or  Titian's 
lovely  pastoral  scenes.  Is  it  not  so,  that 
poets  see  nature,  veiled  to  the  sight,  but 
revealed  to  the  soul  in  visionary  grace  and 
grandeur!  I  confess  the  sight  touched  me  ; 
and  might  have  removed  all  sadness  except 
mine.  So  (I  thought)  the  light  of  her  celes- 
tial face  once  shone  into  my  soul,  and  wrapt 
me  in  a  heavenly  trance.  The  sense  I  have 
of  beauty  raises  me  for  a  moment  above 
myself,  but  depresses  me  the  more  after- 
wards, when  I  recollect  how  it  is  thrown 
away  in  vain  admiration,  and  that  it  only 
makes  me  more  susceptible  of  pain  from  the 
mortifications  I  meet  with.  Would  I  had 
never  seen  her!  I  might  then  not  indeed 
have  been  happy,  but  at  least  I  might  have 
passed  my  life  in  peace,  and  have  sunk  into 
forgetfulness  without  a  pang.  —  The  noble 


67 


LIBER    AMORIS 

scenery  in  this  country  mixes  with  my  pas  - 
sion,  and  refines,  but  does  not  relieve  it.  I 
was  at  Stirling  Castle  not  long  ago.  It  gave 
me  no  pleasure.  The  declivity  seemed  to 
me  abrupt,  not  sublime;  for  in  truth  I  did 
not  shrink  back  from  it  with  terror.  The 
weather-beaten  towers  were  stiff  and  formal : 
the  air  was  damp  and  chill :  the  river  winded 
its  dull,  slimy  way  like  a  snake  along  the 
marshy  grounds:  and  the  dim  misty  tops 
of  Ben  Leddi,  and  the  lovely  Highlands 
(woven  fantastically  of  thin  air)  mocked  my 
embraces  and  tempted  my  longing  eyes  like 
her,  the  sole  queen  and  mistress  of  my 
thoughts!  I  never  found  my  contempla- 
tions on  this  subject  so  subtilised  and  at  the 
same  time  so  desponding  as  on  that  occasion. 
I  wept  myself  almost  blind,  and  I  gazed  at 
the  broad  golden  sun-set  through  my  tears 
that  fell  in  showers.  As  I  trod  the  green 
mountain  turf,  oh !  how  I  wished  to  be  laid 
beneath  it  —  in  one  grave  with  her  —  that  I 
might  sleep  with  her  in  that  cold  bed,  my 
hand  in  hers,  and  my  heart  for  ever  still  — 
while  worms  should  taste  her  sweet  body, 
that  I  had  never  tasted !  There  was  a  time 
when  I  could  bear  solitude;  but  it  is  too 
much  for  me  at  present.  Now  I  am  no 
sooner  left  to  myself  than  I  am  lost  in  infi- 
nite space,  and  look  round  me  in  vain  for 


68 


LIBER    AMORIS 

suppose  or  comfort.  She  was  my  stay,  «iy 
hope :  without  her  hand  to  cling  to,  I  stag- 
ger like  an  infant  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
The  universe  without  her  is  one  wide,  hollow 
abyss,  in  which  my  harassed  thoughts  can 
find  no  resting-place.  I  must  break  off  here ; 
for  the  hysterica  passio  comes  upon  me,  and 
threatens  to  unhinge  my  reason. 

LETTER  XI 

My  dear  and  good  Friend,  I  am  afraid 
I  trouble  you  with  my  querulous  epistles, 
but  this  is  probably  the  last.  To-morrow  or 
the  next  day  decides  my  fate  with  respect  to 
the  divorce,  when  I  expect  to  be  a  free  man. 
In  vain  !  Was  it  not  for  her  and  to  lay  my 
freedom  at  her  feet,  that  I  consented  to  this 
step  which  has  cost  me  infinite  perplexity, 
and  now  to  be  discarded  for  the  first  pre- 
tender that  came  in  her  way  !  If  so,  I  hardly 
think  T  can  survive  it.  You  w4io  have  been  a 
favourite  with  women,  do  not  know  what  it 
is  to  be  deprived  of  one's  only  hope,  and  to 
have  it  turned  to  shame  and  disappointment. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  left  that  can 
afford  me  one  drop  of  comfort  —  this  I  feel 
more  and  more.  Everything  is  to  me  a 
mockery  of  pleasure,  like  her  love.  The 
breeze  does  not  cool  me :  the  blue  sky  does 


69 


LIBER    AMORIS 

not  cheer  me.  I  gaze  only  on  her  face 
averted  from  me  —  alas !  the  only  face  that 
ever  was  turned  fondly  to  me  I  And  why  am 
I  thus  treated  ?  Because  I  wanted  her  to  be 
mine  for  ever  in  love  or  friendship,  and  did 
not  push  my  gross  familiarities  as  far  as  I 
might.  '*  Why  can  you  not  go  on  as  we 
have  done,  and  say  nothing  about  the  word, 
forever  ?  "  Was  it  not  plain  from  this  that 
she  even  then  meditated  an  escape  from  me 
to  some  less  sentimental  lover  ?  "  Do  you 
allow  anyone  else  to  do  so } "  I  said  to  her 
once,  as  I  was  toying  with  her.  "  No,  not 
now  I  '*  was  her  answer ;  that  is,  because 
there  was  nobody  else  in  the  house  to  take 
freedoms  with  her.  I  was  very  well  as  a 
stopgap,  but  I  was  to  be  nothing  more. 
While  the  coast  was  clear,  I  had  it  all  my 

own  way :  but  the  instant  C came,  she 

flung  herself  at  his  head  in  the  most  bare- 
faced way,  ran  breathless  up  stairs  before 
him,  blushed  when  his  foot  was  heard, 
watched  for  him  in  the  passage,  and  was 
sure  to  be  in  close  conference  with  him  when 
he  went  down  again.  It  was  then  my  mad 
proceedings  commenced.  No  wonder.  Had 
I  not  reason  to  be  jealous  of  every  appear- 
ance of  familiarity  with  others,  knowing  how 
easy  she  had  been  with  me  at  first,  and  that 
she  only  grew  shy  when  I  did  not  take  far- 


70 


LIBER    AMORIS 

ther  liberties  ?  What  has  her  character  to 
rest  upon  but  her  attachment  to  me,  which 
she  now  denies,  not  modestly,  but  impu- 
dently ?  Will  you  yourself  say  that  if  she  had 
all  along  no  particular  regard  for  me,  she  will 
not  do  as  much  or  more  with  other  more  likely 
men?  "  She  has  had,"  she  says,  '* enough  of 
my  conversation,"  so  it  could  not  be  that ! 
Ah  1  my  friend,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  I 
should  ever  meet  even  with  the  outward 
demonstrations  of  regard  from  any  woman 
but  a  common  trader  in  the  endearments  of 
love!  I  have  tasted  the  sweets  of  the  well 
practiced  illusion,  and  now  feel  the  bitterness 
of  knowing  what  a  bliss  I  am  deprived  of, 
and  must  ever  be  deprived  of.  Intolerable 
conviction !  Yet  I  might,  I  believe,  have 
won  her  by  other  methods ;  but  some  demon 
held  my  hand.  How  indeed  could  I  offer 
her  the  least  insult  when  I  worshipped  her 
very  footsteps;  and  even  now  pay  her 
divine  honours  from  my  inmost  heart,  when- 
ever I  think  of  her,  abased  and  brutalised  as 
I  have  been  by  that  Circean  cup  of  kisses, 
of  enchantments,  of  which  I  have  drunk  1  I 
am  choked,  withered,  dried  up  with  chagrin, 
remorse,  despair,  from  which  I  have  not  a 
moment's  respite,  day  or  night.  I  have 
always  some  horrid  dream  about  her,  and 
wake  wondering  what  is  the  matter  that  "  she 


71 


LIBER    AMORIS 

is  no  longer  the  same  to  me  as  ever?'*  I 
thought  at  least  we  should  always  remain 
dear  friends,  if  nothing  more — did  she  not 
talk  of  coming  to  live  with  me  only  the  day 
before  I  left  her  in  the  winter  ?  But  "  she's 
gone,  I  am  abused,  and  my  revenge  must  be 
to  love  her !  " —  Yet  she  knows  that  one  line, 
one  word  would  save  me,  the  cruel,  heartless 
destroyer !  I  see  nothing  for  it  but  madness, 
unless  Friday  brings  a  change,  or  unless  she 
is  willing  to  let  me  go  back.  You  must 
know  I  wrote  to  her  to  that  purpose,  but  it 
was  a  very  quiet,  sober  letter,  begging  pardon, 
and  professing  reform  for  the  future,  and  all 
that.  "What  effect  it  will  have,  I  know  not. 
I  was  forced  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  her 
answer,  till  Friday  came. 

Ever  yours. 

TO  S.  L. 

My  dear  Miss  L ,  Evil  to  them  that 

evil  thinks  is  an  old  saying;  and  I  have 
found  it  a  true  one.  I  have  ruined  myself 
by  my  unjust  suspicions  of  you.  Your 
sweet  friendship  was  the  balni  of  my  life; 
and  1  have  lost  it,  I  fear  for  ever,  by  one 
fault  and  folly  after  another.  What  would 
I  give  to  be  restored  to  the  place  in  your 
esteem,  which,  you  assured  me,  I  held  only 


72 


LIBER   AMORIS 

a  few  months  agol  Yet  I  was  not  con- 
tented, but  did  all  I  could  to  torment  myself 
and  harass  you  by  endless  doubts  and  jeal- 
ousy. Can  you  not  forget  and  forgive  the 
past,  and  judge  of  me  by  my  conduct  in 
future  ?  Can  you  not  take  all  my  follies  in 
the  lump,  and  say  like  a  good,  generous  girl, 
*'  Well,  I'll  think  no  more  of  them  ? "  In  a 
word,  may  I  come  back,  and  try  to  behave 
better  ?  A  line  to  say  so  would  be  an  addi- 
tional favour,  to  so  many  already  received  by 
Your  obliged  friend. 

And  sincere  well-wisher. 

LETTER  XII.     TO  C.  P 

I  HAVE  no  answer  from  her.    I'm  mad.    I 

wish  you  to  call  on  M in  confidence,  to 

say  I  intend  to  make  her  an  offer  of  my 
hand,  and  that  I  will  write  to  her  father  to 
that  effect  the  instant  I  am  free,  and  ask 
him  whether  he  thinks  it  will  be  to  any  pur- 
pose, and  what  he  would  advise  me  to  do. 

UNALTERED  LOVE 

"  Love  is  not  love  that  alteration  finds  : 

Oh  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken." 

Shall  I  not  love  her  for  herself  alone,  in 
spite  of  fickleness  and  folly  ?     To  love  her 


73 


LIBER    AMORIS 

for  her  regard  to  me,  is  not  to  love  her,  but 
myself.  She  has  robbed  me  of  herself :  shall 
she  also  rob  me  of  my  love  of  her  ?  Did  I 
not  live  on  her  smile?  Is  it  less  sweet 
because  it  is  withdrawn  from  me?  Did  I 
not  adore  her  every  grace  ?  Does  she  bend 
less  enchantingly,  because  she  has  turned 
from  me  to  another  ?  Is  my  love  then  in 
the  power  of  fortune,  or  of  her  caprice  ? 
No,  I  will  have  it  lasting  as  it  is  pure ;  and 
I  w^ill  make  a  Goddess  of  her,  and  build  a 
temple  to  her  in  my  heart,  and  worship  her 
on  indestructible  altars,  and  raise  statues  to 
her :  and  my  homage  shall  be  unblemished 
as  her  unrivalled  symmetry  of  form;  and 
when  that  fails,  the  memory  of  it  shall  sur- 
vive ;  and  my  bosom  shall  be  proof  to  scorn, 
as  hers  has  been  to  pity ;  and  I  will  pursue 
her  with  an  unrelenting  love,  and  sue  to  be 
her  slave,  and  tend  her  steps  without  notice 
and  without  reward ;  and  serve  her  living,  and 
mourn  for  her  when  dead.  And  thus  my 
love  will  have  shewn  itself  superior  to  her 
hate;  and  I  shall  triumph  and  then  die. 
This  is  my  idea  of  the  only  true  and  heroic 
love !     Such  is  mine  for  her. 

PERFECT  LOVE 

Perfect  love  has  this  advantage  in  it,  that 
it  leaves  the  possessor  of  it  nothing  farther 


74 


LIBER    AMORIS 

to  desire.  There  is  one  object  (at  least) 
in  which  the  soul  finds  absolute  content, 
for  which  it  seeks  to  live,  or  dares  to  die. 
The  heart  has  as  it  were  filled  up  the  moulds 
of  the  imagination.  The  truth  of  passion 
keeps  pace  with  and  outvies  the  extrava- 
gance of  mere  language.  There  are  no  words 
so  fine,  no  flattery  so  soft,  that  there  is  not  a 
sentiment  beyond  them,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  express,  at  the  bottom  of  the  heart  where 
true  love  is.  What  idle  sounds  the  common 
phrases,  adorable  creature^  angel^  divinity^ 
are  ?  What  a  proud  reflection  it  is  t^  have 
a  feeling  answering  to  all  these,  rooted  in  the 
breast,  unalterable,  unutterable,  to  which  all 
other  feelings  are  light  and  vain!  Perfect 
love  reposes  on  the  object  of  its  choice,  like 
the  halcyon  on  the  wave;  and  the  air  of 
heaven  is  around  it. 

FROM  C.  P.,  ESQ. 

London,  July  4tkj  1822. 

I  HAVE  seen  M !  Now,  my  dear  H , 

let  me  entreat  and  adjure  you  to  take  what 
I  have  to  tell  you,  for  what  it  is  worth  — 
neither  for  less,  nor  more.  In  the  first  place, 
I  have  learned  nothing  decisive  from  him. 
This,  as  you  will  at  once  see,  is,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  good.     I  am  either  to  hear  from  him. 


75 


LIBER    AMORIS 

or  see  him  again  in  a  day  or  two;  but  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  know  what  passed 
inconclusive  as  it  was  —  so  I  write  without 
delay,  and  in  great  haste  to  save  a  post.  I 
found  him  frank,  and  even  friendly  in  his 
manner  to  me,  and  in  his  views  respecting 
you.  I  think  that  he  is  sincerely  sorry  for 
your  situation  ;  and  he  feels  that  the  person 
who  has  placed  you  in  that  situation  is  not 
much  less  awkwardly  situated  herself;  and 
he  professes  that  he  would  willingly  do  what 
he  can  for  the  good  of  both.  But  he  sees 
great  difficulties  attending  the  affair  —  which 
he  frankly  professes  to  consider  as  an  alto- 
gether unfortunate  one.  With  respect  to  the 
marriage,  he  seems  to  see  the  most  formid- 
able objections  to  it,  on  both  sides;  but  yet 
he  by  no  means  decidedly  says  that  it  cannot, 
or  that  it  ought  not  to  take  place.  These, 
mind  you,  are  his  own  feelings  on  the  sub- 
ject :  but  the  most  important  point  I  learn 
from  him  is  this,  that  he  is  not  prepared  to 
use  his  influence  either  way  —  that  the  rest 
of  the  family  are  of  the  same  way  of  feeling ; 
and  that,  in  fact,  the  thing  must  and  does 
entirely  rest  with  herself.  To  learn  this  was, 
as  you  see,  gaining  a  great  point. —  When  I 
then  endeavoured  to  ascertain  whether  he 
knew  anything  decisive  as  to  what  are  her 
views  on  the  subject,  I  found  that  he  did 


76 


LIBER   AMORIS 

not.  He  has  an  opinion  on  the  subject,  and 
he  didn't  scruple  to  tell  me  what  it  was ;  but 
he  has  no  positive  knowledge.  In  short,  he 
believes,  from  what  he  learns  from  herself 
(and  he  had  purposely  seen  her  on  the  sub- 
ject, in  consequence  of  my  application  to 
him)  that  she  is  at  present  indisposed  to  the 
marriage;  but  he  is  not  prepared  to  say 
positively  that  she  will  not  consent  to  it. 
Now  all  this,  coming  from  him  in  the  most 
frank  and  unaffected  manner,  and  without 
any  appearance  of  cant,  caution,  or  reserve, 
I  take  to  be  most  important  as  it  respects 
your  views,  whatever  they  may  be  ;  and  cer- 
tainly much  more  favourable  to  them  (I 
confess  it)  than  I  was  prepared  to  expect, 
supposing  them  to  remain  as  they  were.  In 
fact,  as  I  said  before,  the  affair  rests  entirely 
with  herself.  They  are  none  of  them  dis- 
posed either  to  further  the  marriage,  or 
throw  any  insurmountable  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  it ;  and  what  is  more  important  than 
all,  they  are  evidently  by  no  means  certain 
that  SHE  may  not,  at  some  future  period, 
consent  to  it ;  or  they  would,  for  her  sake  as 
well  as  their  own,  let  you  know  as  much 
flatly,  and  put  an  end  to  the  affair  at  once. 
Seeing  in  how  frank  and  straitforward  a 
manner  he  received  what  I  had  to  say  to 
him,  and  replied  to  it,  I  proceeded  to  ask 


77 


LIBER    AMORIS 

him  what  were  his  views,  and  what  were 
likely  to  be  hers  (in  case  she  did  not  con- 
sent) as  to  whether  you  should  return  to  live 
in  the  house ;  —  but  I  added,  without  waiting 
for  his  answer,  that  if  she  intended  to  persist 
in  treating  you  as  she  had  done  for  some 
time  past,  it  would  be  worse  than  madness 
for  you  to  think  of  returning.  I  added  that, 
in  case  you  did  return,  all  you  would  expect 
from  her  would  be  that  she  would  treat  you 
with  civility  and  kindness  —  that  she  would 
continue  to  evince  that  friendly  feeling 
towards  you,  that  she  had  done  for  a  great 
length  of  time,  &c.  To  this,  he  said,  he 
could  really  give  no  decisive  reply,  but  that 
he  should  be  most  happy  if,  by  any  interven- 
tion of  his,  he  could  conduce  to  your  com- 
fort ;  but  he  seemed  to  think  that  for  you  to 
return  on  any  express  understanding  that 
she  should  behave  to  you  in  any  particular 
manner,  would  be  to  place  her  in  a  most 
awkward  situation.  He  went  somewhat  at 
length  into  this  point,  and  talked  very  rea- 
sonably about  it;  the  result,  however,  was 
that  he  would  not  throw  any  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  your  return,  or  of  her  treating  you 
as  a  friend,  &c.,  nor  did  it  appear  that  he 
believed  she  would  refuse  to  do  so.  And, 
finally,  we  parted  on  the  understanding  that 
he  would  see  them  on  the  subject,  and  ascer- 


78 


LIBER    AMORIS 

tain  what  could  be  done  for  the  comfort  of 
all  parties  :  though  he  was  of  opinion  that  if 
you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  break  off 
the  acquaintance  altogether,  it  would  be  the 
best  plan  of  all.  I  am  to  hear  from  him 
again  in  a  day  or  two. —  Well,  what  do  you 
say  to  all  this  ?  Can  you  turn  it  to  any 
thing  but  good  —  comparative  good  ?  If  you 
would  know  what  /say  to  it,  it  is  this :  — She 
is  still  to  be  won  by  wise  and  prudent  con- 
duct on  your  part;  she  was  always  to  have 
been  won  by  such  ;  —  and  if  she  is  lost,  it 
has  been  (not,  as  you  sometimes  suppose, 
because  you  have  not  carried  that  unwise, 
may  I  not  Say  unworthy?  conduct  still  far- 
ther, but)  because  you  gave  way  to  it  at  all. 
Of  course  I  use  the  terms  *'wise"  and 
"prudent"  with  reference  to  your  object. 
Whether  the  pursuit  of  that  object  is  wise, 
only  yourself  can  judge.  I  say  she  has  all 
along  been  to  be  won,  and  she  still  is  to 
be  won ;  and  all  that  stands  in  the  way  of 
your  views  at  this  moment  is  your  past 
conduct.  They  are  all  of  them,  every  soul, 
frightened  at  you;  they  have  seen  enough 
of  you  to  make  them  so ;  and  they  have 
doubtless  heard  ten  times  more  than  they 
have  seen,  or   than   anyone  else  has  seen. 

They  are  all  of  them  including  M (and 

particularly   she  herself)  frightened  out  of 


79 


LIBER    AMORIS 

their  wits,  as  to  what  might  be  your  treat- 
ment of  her  if  she  were  yours ;  and  they 
dare  not  trust  you  —  they  will  not  trust 
you,  at  present.  I  do  not  say  that  they  will 
trust  you,  or  rather  that  she  will,  for  it  all 
depends  on  her,  when  you  have  gone  through 
a  probation,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  will  not 
trust  you  till  you  have.  You  will,  I  hope, 
not  be  angry  with  me  when  I  say  that  she 
would  be  a  fool  if  she  did.  If  she  were  to 
accept  you  at  present,  and  without  knowing 
more  of  you,  even  /  should  begin  to  suspect 
that  she  had  an  unworthy  motive  for  doing 
it.  Let  me  not  forget  to  mention  what  is 
perhaps  as  important  a  point  as  any,  as  it 
regards  the  marriage.  I  of  course  stated  to 
M that  when  you  are  free,  you  are  pre- 
pared to  make  her  a  formal  offer  of  your 
hand ;  but  I  begged  him,  if  he  was  certain 
that  such  an  offer  would  be  refused,  to  tell 
me  so  plainly  at  once,  that  I  might  endeavour, 
in  that  case,  to  dissuade  you  from  subjecting 
yourself  to  the  pain  of  such  a  refusal.  He 
would  not  tell  me  that  he  was  certain.  He 
said  his  opinion  was  that  she  would  not 
accept  your  offer,  but  still  he  seemed  to 
think  that  there  would  be  no  harm  in  making 
it !  —  One  word  more,  and  a  very  important 
one.  He  once,  and  without  my  referring  in 
the  slightest  manner  to  that  part  of  the  sub- 


80 


LIBER    AMORIS 

ject,  spoke  of  her  as  2i  good  girl ^  and  likely  to 
make  any  man  an  excellent  wife  I  Do  you 
think  if  she  were  a  bad  girl  (and  if  she  were, 
he  must  know  her  to  be  so)  he  would  have 
dared  to  do  this,  under  these  circumstances  ? 
—  And  once,  in  speaking  of  his  not  being  a  fit 
person  to  set  his  face  against  "  marrying  for 
love,"  he  added  "  I  did  so  myself,  and  out  of 
that  house ;  and  I  have  had  reason  to  rejoice 
at  it  ever  since."  And  mind  (for  I  anticipate 
your  cursed  suspicions)  I'm  certain,  at  least, 
if  manner  can  entitle  one  to  be  certain  of 
any  thing,  that  he  said  all  this  spontaneously, 
and  without  any  understood  motive;  and 
I'm  certain,  too,  that  he  knows  you  to  be  a 
person  that  it  would  not  do  to  play  any 
tricks  of  this  kind  with.  I  believe  —  (and  all 
this  would  never  have  entered  my  thoughts, 
but  that  I  know  it  will  enter  yours)  I  believe 
that  even  if  they  thought  (as  you  have  some- 
times supposed  they  do)  that  she  needs 
whitewashing,  or  making  an  honest  woman 
of,  you  would  be  the  last  person  they  would 
think  of  using  for  such  a  purpose,  for  they 
know  (as  well  as  I  do)  that  you  couldn't  fail 
to  find  out  the  trick  in  a  month,  and  would 
turn  her  into  the  street  the  next  moment, 
though  she  were  twenty  times  your  wife  — 
and  that,  as  to  the  consequences  of  doing 
so,  you  would  laugh  at  them,  even  if  you 


8i 


LIBER    AMORIS 

cou'dn't  escape  from  them. —  I  shall  lose  the 
post  if  I  say  more. 

Believe  me, 

Ever  truly  your  friend, 

c.  p. 

LETTER   XIII 

My  dear   P ,    You   have   saved   my 

life.  If  I  do  not  keep  friends  with  her  now, 
I  deserve  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quar- 
tered. She  is  an  angel  from  Heaven,  and 
you  cannot  pretend  I  ever  said  a  word  to 
the  contrary !  The  little  rogue  must  have 
liked  me  from  the  first,  or  she  never  could 
have  stood  all  these  hurricanes  without 
slipping  her  cable.  What  could  she  find  in 
me  ?  "I  have  mistook  my  person  all  this 
while,"  &c.  Do  you  know  I  saw  a  picture, 
the  very  pattern  of  her,  the  other  day,  at 
Dalkeith  Palace  (Hope  finding  Fortune  in 
the  Sea),  just  before  this  blessed  news  came, 
and  the  resemblance  drove  me  almost  out 
of  my  senses.  Such  delicacy,  such  fulness, 
such  perfect  softness,  such  buoyancy,  such 
grace !  If  it  is  not  the  very  image  of  her,  I 
am  no  judge.  —  You  have  the  face  to  doubt 
my  making  the  best  husband  in  the  world ; 
you  might  as  well  doubt  it  if  I  was  married 
to  one  of  the  Houris  of  Paradise.  She  is  a 
saint,  an  angel,  a  love.     If  she  deceives  me 


82 


LIBER    AMORIS 

again,  she  kills  me.  But  I  will  have  such  a 
kiss  when  J  get  back,  as  shall  last  me  twenty 
years.  May  God  bless  her  for  not  utterly 
disowning  and  destroying  me  !  What  an 
exquisite  little  creature  it  is,  and  how  she 
holds  out  to  the  last  in  her  system  of  con- 
sistent contradictions !  Since  I  wrote  to 
you  about  making  a  formal  proposal,  I  have 
had  her  face  constantly  before  me,  looking 
so  like  some  faultless  marble  statue,  as  cold, 
as  fixed  and  graceful  as  ever  statue  did ;  the 
expression  (nothing  was  ever  like  that!) 
seemed  to  say  —  "I  wish  I  could  love  you 
better  than  I  do,  but  still  I  will  be  yours." 
No,  I'll  never  believe  again  that  she  will  not 
be  mine ;  for  I  think  she  was  made  on  pur- 
pose for  me.  If  there's  anyone  else  that 
understands  that  turn  of  her  head  as  I  do, 
I'll  give  her  up  without  scruple.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  this,  never  to  dream  of 
another  woman,  while  she  even  thinks  it 
worth  her  while  to  refuse  to  have  me.  You 
see  I  am  not  hard  to  please,  after  all.  Did 
M know  of  the  intimacy  that  had  sub- 
sisted between  us  ?  Or  did  you  hint  at  it  ? 
I  think  it  would  be  a  clencher^  if  he  did. 
How  ought  I  to  behave  when  I  go  back  } 
Advise  a  fool,  who  had  nearly  lost  a  Goddess 
by  his  folly.  The  thing  was,  I  could  not 
think  it  possible  she  would  ever  like  me. 


83 


LIBER  AMORIS 

Her  taste  is  singular,  but  not  the  worse  for 
that.  I'd  rather  have  her  love,  or  liking 
(call  it  what  you  will)  than  empires.  I 
deserve  to  call  her  mine;  for  nothing  else 
can  atone  for  what  I've  gone  through  for 
her.  I  hope  your  next  letter  will  not  reverse 
all,  and  then  I  shall  be  happy  till  I  see  her, 
—  one  of  the  blest  when  I  do  see  her,  if  she 
looks  like  my  own  beautiful  love.  I  may 
perhaps  write  a  line  when  I  come  to  my 
right  wits.  —  Farewel  at  present,  and  thank 
you  a  thousand  times  for  what  you  have 
done  for  your  poor  friend. 

P.S.  —  I  like  what  M said  about  her 

sister,  much.  There  are  good  people  in  the 
world :  I  begin  to  see  it,  and  believe  it. 

LETTER  THE  LAST 

Dear  P ,  To-morrow  is  the  decisive 

day  that  makes  me  or  mars  me.  I  will  let 
you  know  the  result  by  a  line  added  to  this. 
Yet  what  signifies  it,  since  either  way  I  have 
little  hope  there,  ''whence  alone  my  hope 
Cometh  !  "  You  must  know  I  am  strangely 
in  the  dumps  at  this  present  writing.  My 
reception  with  her  is  doubtful,  and  my  fate 
is  then  certain.  The  hearing  of  your  happi- 
ness has,  I  own,  made  me  thoughtful.  It  is 
just  what  I  proposed  to  her  to  do  —  to  have 


84 


LIBER   AMORIS 

crossed  the  Alps  with  me,  to  sail  on  sunny 
seas,  to  bask  in  Italian  skies,  to  have  visited 
Vevai  and  the  rocks  of  Meillerie,  and  to 
have  repeated  to  her  on  the  spot  the  story 
of  Julia  and  St.  Preux,  and  to  have  shewn 
her  all  that  my  heart  had  stored  up  for  her 
—  but  on  my  forehead  alone  is  written  — 
Rejected  !  Yet  I  too  could  have  adored  as 
fervently,  and  loved  as  tenderly  as  others, 
had  I  been  permitted.  You  are  going 
abroad,  you  say,  happy  in  making  happy. 
Where  shall  I  be  ?  In  the  grave,  I  hope,  or 
else  in  her  arms.  To  me,  alas !  there  is  no 
sweetness  out  of  her  sight,  and  that  sweet- 
ness has  turned  to  bitterness,  I  fear;  that 
gentleness  to  sullen  scorn !  Still  I  hope  for 
the  best.  If  she  will  but  kaz/e  me,  I'll  make 
her  /ove  me:  and  I  think  her  not  giving  a 
positive  answer  looks  like  it,  and  also  shews 
that  there  is  no  one  else.  Her  holding  out 
to  the  last  also,  I  think,  proves  that  she  was 
never  to  have  been  gained  but  with  honour. 
She*s  a  strange,  almost  an  inscrutable  girl : 
but  if  I  once  win  her  consent,  I  shall  kill  her 
with  kindness.  —  Will  you  let  me  have  a 
sight  of  somebody  before  you  go  ?  I  should 
be  most  proud.  I  was  in  hopes  to  have  got 
away  by  the  Steam -boat  to-morrow,  but 
owing  to  the  business  not  coming  on  till 
then,  I  cannot ;  and  may  not  be  in  town  for 


8s 


LIBER    AMORIS 

another  week,  unless  I  come  by  the  Mail, 
which  I  am  strongly  tempted  to  do.  In  the 
latter  case  I  shall  be  there^  and  visible  on 
Saturday  evening.  Will  you  look  in  and 
see,  about  eight  o'clock.?  I  wish  much  to 
see  you  and  her  and  J.  H.  and  my  little  boy 
once  more ;  and  then,  if  she  is  not  what  she 
once  was  to  me,  I  care  not  if  I  die  that 
instant.  I  will  conclude  here  till  to-morrow, 
as  I  am  getting  into  my  old  melancholy. — 

It  is  all  over,  and  I  am  my  own  man,  and 
yours  ever  — 


86 


PART  III 
ADDRESSED  TO  J.  S.  K 

My  dear  K ,   It  is  all  over,  and  I 

know  my  fate.  I  told  you  I  would  send  you 
word,  if  anything  decisive  happened  ;  but  an 
impenetrable  mystery  hung  over  the  affair 
till  lately.  It  is  at  last  (by  the  merest  acci- 
dent in  the  world)  dissipated;  and  I  keep 
my  promise,  both  for  your  satisfaction,  and 
for  the  ease  of  my  own  mind. 

You  remember  the  morning  when  I  said 
"  I  will  go  and  repose  my  sorrows  at  the  foot 
of  Ben  Lomond"  —  and  when  from  Dum- 
barton Bridge  its  giant-shadow,  clad  in  air 
and  sunshine,  appeared  in  view.  We  had  a 
pleasant  day's  walk.  We  passed  Smollett's 
monument  on  the  road  (somehow  these 
poets  touch  one  in  reflection  more  than  most 
military  heroe%)  —  talked  of  old  times ;  you 
repeated  Logan's  beautiful  verses  to  the 
cuckoo,!  which  I  wanted  to  compare  with 


I  "  Sweet  bird,  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 
Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 
No  winter  in  thy  year." 

So  they  begin.  It  was  the  month  of  May  ;  the  cuckoo 
sang  shrouded  in  some  woody  copse  ;  the  showers  fell 
between  whiles ;  my  friend  repeated  the  lines  with 
native  enthusiasm  in  a  clear  manly  voice,  still  resonant 


87 


LIBER    AMORIS 

Wordsworth's,  but  my  courage  failed  me; 
you  then  told  me  some  passages  of  an  early 
attachment  which  was  suddenly  broken  off  ; 
we  considered  together  which  was  the  most 
to  be  pitied,  a  disappointment  in  love  where 
the  attachment  was  mutual  or  one  where 
there  has  been  no  return,  and  we  both 
agreed,  I  think,  that  the  former  was  best  to 
be  endured,  and  that  to  have  the  conscious- 
ness of  it  a  companion  for  life  was  the  least 
evil  of  the  two,  as  there  was  a  secret  sweet- 
ness that  took  off  the  bitterness  and  the 
sting  of  regret,  and  "the  memory  of  what 
once  had  been  "  atoned,  in  some  measure, 
and  at  intervals,  for  what  '*  never  more  could 
be.*'  In  the  other  case,  there  was  nothing 
to  look  back  to  with  tender  satisfaction,  no 
redeeming  trait,  not  even  a  possibility  of 
turning  it  to  good.  It  left  behind  it  not 
cherished  sighs,  but  stifled  pangs.  The 
galling  sense  of  it  did  not  bring  moisture 
into  the  eyes,  but  dried  up  the  heart  ever 
after.  One  had  been  my  fate,  the  other  had 
been  yours !  — 

You  startled  me  every  now  and  then  from 
my   reverie  by  the  robust   voice,  in  which 


of  youth  and  hope.  Mr.  Wordsworth  will  excuse  me, 
if  in  these  circumstances  I  declined  entering  the  field 
with  his  pro  founder  metaphysical  strain,  and  kept  my 
preference  to  myself. 


LIBER    AMORIS 

you  asked  the  country  people  (by  no  means 
prodigal  of  their  answers)  — "  If  there  was 
any  trout  -fishing  in  those  streams  ? " —  and 
our  dinner  at  Luss  set  us  up  for  the  rest  of 
our  day's  march.  The  sky  now  became  over- 
cast ;  but  this,  I  think,  added  to  the  effect 
of  the  scene.  The  road  to  Tarbet  is  superb. 
It  is  on  the  very  verge  of  the  lake  —  hard, 
level,  rocky,  with  low  stone  bridges  con- 
stantly flung  across  it,  and  fringed  with  birch 
trees,  just  then  budding  into  spring,  behind 
which,  as  through  a  slight  veil,  you  saw  the 
huge  shadowy  form  of  Ben  Lomond.  It 
lifts  its  enormous  but  graceful  bulk  direct 
from  the  edge  of  the  water  without  any  pro- 
jecting lowlands,  and  has  in  this  respect 
much  the  advantage  of  Skiddaw.  Loch 
Lomond  comes  upon  you  by  degrees  as  you 
advance,  unfolding  and  then  withdrawing 
its  conscious  beauties  like  an  accomplished 
coquet.  You  are  struck  with  the  point  of  a 
rock,  the  arch  of  a  bridge,  the  Highland  huts 
(like  the  first  rude  habitations  of  men)  dug 
out  of  the  soil,  built  of  turf,  and  covered 
with  brown  heather,  a  sheep-cote,  some 
straggling  cattle  feeding  half-way  down  a 
precipice;  but  as  you  advance  farther  on, 
the  view  expands  into  the  perfection  of  lake 
scenery.  It  is  nothing  (or  your  eye  is  caught 
by  nothing)  but  water,  earth,  and  sky.     Ben 


89 


LIBER    AMORIS 

Lomond  waves  to  the  right,  in  its  simple 
majesty,  cloud-capt  or  bare,  and  descending 
to  a  point  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  shews  the 
Trossacs  beyond,  tumbling  about  their  blue 
ridges  like  woods  waving ;  to  the  left  is  the 
Cobler,  whose  top  is  like  a  castle  shattered 
in  pieces  and  nodding  to  its  ruin ;  and  at 
your  side  rise  the  shapes  of  round  pastoral 
hills,  green,  fleeced  with  herds,  and  retiring 
into  mountainous  bays  and  upland  valleys, 
where  solitude  and  peace  might  make  their 
lasting  home,  if  peace  were  to  be  found  in 
solitude !  That  it  was  not  always  so,  I  was 
a  sufficient  proof ;  for  there  was  one  image 
that  alone  haunted  me  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  sublimity  and  beauty,  and  turned  it  to  a 
mockery  and  a  dream  ! 

The  snow  on  the  mountain  would  not  let 
us  ascend ;  and  being  weary  of  waiting  and 
of  being  visited  by  the  guide  every  two  hours 
to  let  us  know  that  the  weather  would  not 
do,  we  returned,  you  homewards,  and  I  to 
London  — 

"  Italiam,  Italiam !  " 

You  know  the  anxious  expectations  with 
which  I  set  out :  —  now  hear  the  result. — 

As  the  vessel  sailed  up  the  Thames,  the 
air  thickened  with  the  consciousness  of  being 
near  her,  and  I  "  heaved  her  name  pantingly 


90 


LIBER    AMORIS 

forth."  As  I  approached  the  house,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  lines  — 

"  How  near  am  I  to  a  happiness, 
That  earth  exceeds  not !  Not  another  like  it. 
The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  conceal'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  true  love  sends  forth  ! 
The  violet-beds  not  sweeter.     Now  for  a  welcome 
Able  to  draw  men's  envies  upon  man  : 
A  kiss  now  that  will  hang  upon  my  lip, 
As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose, 
And  full  as  long  !  " 

I  saw  her,  but  I  saw  at  the  first  glance  that 
there  was  something  amiss.  It  was  with 
much  difficulty  and  after  several  pressing 
intreaties  that  she  was  prevailed  on  to  come 
up  into  the  room;  and  when  she  did,  she 
stood  at  the  door,  cold,  distant,  averse ;  and 
when  at  length  she  was  persuaded  by  my 
repeated  remonstrances  to  come  and  take 
my  hand,  and  I  offered  to  touch  her  lips, 
she  turned  her  head  and  shrunk  from  my 
embraces,  as  if  quite  alienated  or  mortally 
offended.  I  asked  what  it  could  mean  ? 
What  had  I  done  in  her  absence  to  have 
incurred  her  displeasure?  Why  had  she 
not  written  to  me  ?  I  could  get  only  short, 
sullen,  disconnected  answers,  as  if  there  was 
something  labouring  in  her  mind  which  she 


91 


LIBER    AMORIS 

either  could  not  or  would  not  impart.  I 
hardly  knew  how  to  bear  this  first  reception 
after  so  long  an  absence,  and  so  different 
from  the  one  my  sentiments  towards  her 
merited ;  but  I  thought  it  possible  it  might 
be  prudery  (as  I  had  returned  without  having 
actually  accomplished  what  I  went  about) 
or  that  she  had  taken  offence  at  something  in 
my  letters.  She  saw  how  much  I  was  hurt. 
I  asked  her,  "  If  she  was  altered  since  I  went 
away?" — "No.'*  "If  there  was  any  one 
else  who  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  gain 
her  favourable  opinion  ?  "  —  "  No,  there  was 
no  one  else."  "  What  was  it  then  ?  Was  it 
any  thing  in  my  letters  ?   Or  had  I  displeased 

her  by  letting  Mr.  P know  she  wrote  to 

me  ? "  —  "  No,  not  at  all ;  but  she  did  not 
apprehend  my  last  letter  required  any 
answer,  or  she  would  have  replied  to  it.*' 
All  this  appeared  to  me  very  unsatisfactory 
and  evasive ;  but  I  could  get  no  more  from 
her,  and  was  obliged  to  let  her  go  with  a 
heavy,  foreboding  heart.     I  however  found 

that  C was  gone,  and  no  one  else  had 

been  there,  of  whom  I  had  cause  to  be  jeal- 
ous.—  "  Should  I  see  her  on  the  morrow  ? " 
— "She  believed  so,  but  she  could  not 
promise."  The  next  morning  she  did  not 
appear  with  the  breakfast  as  usual.  At  this 
I  grew  somewhat  uneasy.     The  little  Buona- 


92 


LIBER    AMORIS 

parte,  however,  was  placed  in  its  old  position 
on  the  mantelpiece,  which  I  considered  as  a 
sort  of  recognition  of  old  times.  I  saw  her 
once  or  twice  casually;  nothing  particular 
happened  till  the  next  day,  which  was  Sun- 
day. I  took  occasion  to  go  into  the  parlour 
for  the  newspaper,  which  she  gave  me  with 
a  gracious  smile,  and  seemed  tolerably  frank 
and  cordial.  This  of  course  acted  as  a  spell 
upon  me.  I  walked  out  with  my  little  boy, 
intending  to  go  and  dine  out  at  one  or  two 
places,  but  I  found  that  I  still  contrived  to 
bend  my  steps  towards  her,  and  I  went  back 
to  take  tea  at  home.  While  we  were  out,  I 
talked  to  William  about  Sarah,  saying  that 
she  too  was  unhappy,  and  asking  him  to 
make  it  up  with  her.  He  said,  if  she  was 
unhappy,  he  would  not  bear  her  malice  any 
more.  When  she  came  up  with  the  tea- 
things,  I  said  to  her,  "  William  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  you — I  believe  he  wants  to 
be  friends."  On  which  he  said  in  his  abrupt, 
hearty  manner,  •'  Sarah,  I'm  sorry  if  I've 
ever  said  anything  to  vex  you" — so  they 
shook  hands,  and  she  said,  smiling  affably  — 
"  Then  I'll  think  no  more  of  it ! "  I  added  — 
"  I  see  you've  brought  me  back  my  little 
Buonaparte"  —  She  answered  with  tremu- 
lous softness  —  "I  told 'you  I'd  keep  it  safe 
for  you  ! "  —  as  if  her  pride  and  pleasure  in 


93 


LIBER    AMORIS 

doing  SO  had  been  equal,  and  she  had,  as  it 
were,  thought  of  nothing  during  my  absence 
but  how  to  greet  me  with  this  proof  of  her 
fidelity  on  my  return.  I  cannot  describe  her 
manner.  Her  words  are  few  and  simple; 
but  you  can  have  no  idea  of  the  exquisite, 
unstudied,  irresistible  graces  with  which  she 
accompanies  them,  unless  you  can  suppose  a 
Greek  statue  to  smile,  move,  and  speak. 
Those  lines  in  Tibullus  seem  to  have  been 
written  on  purpose  for  her  — 

Quicquid  agit  quoquo  vestigii  vertit, 
Componit  furtim,  subsequiturque  decor. 

Or  what  do  you  think  of  those  in  a  modern 
play,  which  might  actually  have  been  com- 
posed with  an  eye  to  this  little  trifler  — 

"  See  with  what  a  waving  air  she  goes 

Along  the  corridor.     How  like  a  fawn  ! 
Yet  statelier.    No  sound  (however  soft) 
Nor  gentlest  echo  telleth  when  she  treads, 
But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence.    So  did  Hebe  grow 
Among  the  gods  a  paragon  !  Away,  I  'm  grown 
The  very  fool  of  Love  !  " 

The  truth  is,  I  never  saw  anything  like  her, 
nor  I  never  shall  again.  How  then  do  I  con- 
sole myself  for  the  loss  of  her.?  Shall  I  tell 
you,  but  you  will  not  mention  it  again?  I 
am  foolish  enough  to  believe  that  she  and 
I,  in  spite  of  every   thing,  shall   be   sitting 


94 


LIBER    AMORIS 

together  over  a  sea-coal  fire,  a  comfortable 
good  old  couple,  twenty  years  hence !  But 
to  my  narrative. — 

I  was  delighted  with  the  alteration  in  her 
manner,  and  said,  referring  to  the  bust  — 
"  You  know  it  is  not  mine,  but  yours ;  I 
gave  it  you ;  nay,  I  have  given  you  all  —  my 
heart,  and  whatever  I  possess,  is  yours  I  She 
seemed  good-humouredly  to  decline  this 
carte  blanche  offer,  and  waved,  like  a  thing 
of  enchantment,  out  of  the  room.  False 
calm  !  —  Deceitful  smiles  !  —  Short  interval 
of  peace,  followed  by  lasting  woe !  I  sought 
an  interview  with  her  that  same  evening.  I 
could  not  get  her  to  come  any  farther  than 
the  door.  "  She  was  busy  —  she  could  hear 
what  I  had  to  say  there."  "  Why  do  you 
seem  to  avoid  me  as  you  do  ?  Not  one  five 
minutes'  conversation,  for  the  sake  of  old 
acquaintance  ?  Well,  then,  for  the  sake  of 
the  little  image  f^  The  appeal  seemed  to 
have  lost  its  efficacy  ;  the  charm  was  broken  ; 
she  remained  immoveable.  *'  Well,  then  I 
must  come  to  you,  if  you  will  not  run  away." 
I  went  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the 
door,  and  took  her  hand,  and  talked  to  her 
for  three  quarters  of  an  hour;  and  she  lis- 
tened patiently,  thoughtfully,  and  seemed  a 
good  deal  affected  by  what  I  said.  I  told 
her  how  much  I  had  felt,  how  much  I  had 


95 


LIBER    AMORIS 

suffered  for  her  in  my  absence,  and  how 
much  I  had  been  hurt  by  her  sudden  silence, 
for  which  I  knew  not  how  to  account.  I 
could  have  done  nothing  to  offend  her  while 
I  was  away ;  and  my  letters  were,  I  hoped, 
tender  and  respectful.  I  had  had  but  one 
thought  ever  present  with  me;  her  image 
never  quitted  my  side,  alone  or  in  company, 
to  delight  or  distract  me.  Without  her 
I  could  have  no  peace,  nor  ever  should 
again,  unless  she  would  behave  to  me  as  she 
had  done  formerly.  There  was  no  abate- 
ment of  my  regard  to  her ;  why  was  she  so 
changed  }  I  said  to  her,  *Ah  1  Sarah,  when 
I  think  that  it  is  only  a  year  ago  that  you 
were  everything  to  me  I  could  wish,  and 
that  now  you  seem  lost  to  me  for  ever,  the 
month  of  May  (the  name  of  which  ought  to 
be  a  signal  for  joy  and  hope)  strikes  chill  to 
my  heart.  —  How  different  is  this  meeting 
from  that  delicious  parting,  when  you 
seemed  never  weary  of  repeating  the  proofs 
of  your  regard  and  tenderness,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  we  tore  ourselves  asunder  at 
last!  I  am  ten  thousand  times  fonder  of 
you  than  I  was  then,  and  ten  thousand  times 
more  unhappy.'*  '*  You  have  no  reason  to 
be  so ;  my  feelings  towards  you  are  the  same 
as  they  ever  were."  I  told  her  "She  was 
my  all  of  hope  or  comfort :  my  passion  for 


96 


LIBER   AMORIS 

her  grew  stronger  every  time  I  saw  her." 
She  answered,  "She  was  sorry  for  it;  for 
that  she  never  could  return."  I  said  some- 
thing about  looking  ill :  she  said  in  her 
pretty,  mincing,  emphatic  way,  "  I  despise 
looks  I  "  So,  thought  I,  it  is  not  that ;  and 
she  says  there's  no  one  else:  it  must  be 
some  strange  air  she  gives  herself,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  approaching  change  in  my  cir- 
cumstances. She  has  been  probably  advised 
not  to  give  up  till  all  is  fairly  over,  and  then 
she  will  be  my  own  sweet  girl  again.  All 
this  time  she  was  standing  just  outside  the 
door,  my  hand  in  hers  (would  that  they 
could  have  grown  together  1)  she  was  dressed 
in  a  loose  morning-gown,  her  hair  curled 
beautifully ;  she  stood  with  her  profile  to  me, 
and  coked  down  the  whole  time.  No 
expression  was  ever  more  soft  or  perfect. 
Her  whole  attitude,  her  whole  form,  was 
dignity  and  bewitching  grace.  I  said  to  her, 
"  You  look  like  a  queen,  my  love,  adorned 
with  your  own  graces !  "  I  grew  idolatrous, 
and  would  have  kneeled  to  her.  She  made 
a  movement,  as  if  she  was  displeased.  I 
tried  to  draw  her  towards  me.  She  wouldn't. 
I  then  got  up,  and  offered  to  kiss  her  at 
parting.  I  found  she  obstinately  refused. 
This  stung  me  to  the  quick.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  ever  done  so.   There 


97 


LIBER   AMORIS 

must  be  some  new  bar  between  us  to  pro- 
duce these  continued  denials;  and  she  had 
not  even  esteem  enough  left  to  tell  me  so. 
I  followed  her  half-way  down-stairs,  but  to 
no  purpose,  and  returned  into  my  room, 
confirmed  in  my  most  dreadful  surmises.  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  gave  way  to  all 
the  fury  of  disappointed  hope  and  jealous 
passion.  I  was  made  the  dupe  of  trick  and 
cunning,  killed  with  cold,  sullen  scorn  ;  and, 
after  all  the  agony  I  had  suffered,  could 
obtain  no  explanation  why  I  was  subjected 
to  it.  I  was  still  to  be  tantalized,  tortured, 
made  the  cruel  sport  of  one,  for  whom  I 
would  have  sacrificed  all.  I  tore  the  locket 
which  contained  her  hair  (and  which  I  used  to 
wear  continually  in  my  bosom,  as  the  precious 
token  of  her  dear  regard)  from  my  neck,  and 
trampled  it  in  pieces.  I  then  dashed  the 
little  Buonaparte  on  the  ground,  and  stamped 
upon  it,  as  one  of  her  instruments  of  mock- 
ery. I  could  not  stay  in  the  room ;  I  could 
not  leave  it;  my  rage,  my  despair  were 
uncontroulable.  I  shrieked  curses  on  her 
name,  and  on  her  false  love ;  and  the  scream 
I  uttered  (so  pitiful  and  so  piercing  was  it, 
that  the  sound  of  it  terrified  me)  instantly 
brought  the  whole  house,  father,  mother, 
lodgers  and  all,  into  the  room.  They  thought 
I  was  destroying  her  and  myself.   I  had  gone 


98 


LIBER    AMORIS 

into  the  bedroom,  merely  to  hide  away  from 
myself,  and  as  I  came  out  of  it,  raging -mad 
with  the  new  sense  of  present  shame   and 

lasting  misery,  Mrs.  F said,  "  She's  in 

there !  He  has  got  her  in  there !  "  thinking 
the  cries  had  proceeded  from  her,  and  that 
I  had  been  offering  her  violence.  "  Oh  ! 
no,"  I  said,  "  She's  in  no  danger  from  me  ;  I 
am  not  the  person; "  and  tried  to  burst  from 
this  scene  of  degradation.  The  mother 
endeavoured   to   stop   me,   and   said,  "  For 

God's   sake,   don't   go   out,   Mr.  1   for 

God's  sake,  don't ! "  Her  father,  who  was 
not,  I  believe,  in  the  secret,  and  was  there- 
fore justly  scandalised  at  such  outrageous 
conduct,  said  angrily,  **  Let  him  go  1  Why 
should  he  stay  ?  "  I  however  sprang  down 
stairs,  and  as  they  called  out  to  me,  "  What 
is  it  ?  —  What  has  she  done  to  you  ? "  I 
answered,  "  She  has  murdered  me  1  —  She 
has  destroyed  me  for  ever!  —  She  has 
doomed  my  soul  to  perdition !  "  I  rushed 
out  of  the  house,  thinking  to  quit  it  forever ; 
but  I  was  no  sooner  in  the  street,  than  the 
desolation  and  the  darkness  became  greater, 
more  intolerable ;  and  the  eddying  violence 
of  my  passion  drove  me  back  to  the  source, 
from  whence  it  sprung.  This  unexpected 
explosion,  with  the  conjectures  to  which  it 
would  give  rise,  could  not  be  very  agreeable 


99 


LIBER    AMORIS 

to  the  precieuse  or  her  family ;  and  when  I 
went  back,  the  father  was  waiting  at  the 
door,  as  if  anticipating  this  sudden  turn  of 
my  feelings,  with  no  friendly  aspect.  I  said, 
*'  I  have  to  beg  pardon.  Sir ;  but  my  mad  fit 
is  over,  and  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to  you 
in  private."  He  seemed  to  hesitate,  but 
some  uneasy  forebodings  on  his  own  account, 
probably,  prevailed  over  his  resentment ;  or, 
perhaps  (as  philosophers  have  a  desire  to 
know  the  cause  of  thunder)  it  was  a  natural 
curiosity  to  know  what  circumstances  of 
provocation  had  given  rise  to  such  an 
extraordinary  scene  of  confusion.  When  we 
reached  my  room,  I  requested  him  to  be 
seated.  I  said,  "  It  is  true,  Sir,  I  have  lost 
my  peace  of  mind  for  ever,  but  at  present  I 
am  quite  calm  and  collected,  and  I  wish  to 
explain  to  you  why  I  have  behaved  in  so 
extravagant  a  way,  and  to  ask  for  your 
advice  and  intercession."  He  appeared  sat- 
isfied, and  I  went  on.  I  had  no  chance 
either  of  exculpating  myself,  or  of  probing 
the  question  to  the  bottom,  but  by  stating 
the  naked  truth,  and  therefore  I  said  at  once, 
"  Sarah  told  me,  Sir  (and  I  never  shall  forget 
the  way  in  which  she  told  me,  fixing  her 
dove's  eyes  upon  me,  and  looking  a  thousand 
tender  reproaches  for  the  loss  of  that  good 
opinion,  which  she  held  dearer  than  all  the 


LIBER    AMORIS 

world)  she  told  me,  Sir,  that  as  you  one  day 
passed  the  door,  which  stood  a -jar,  you  saw 
her  in  an  attitude  which  a  good  deal  startled 
you  ;  I  mean  sitting  in  my  lap,  with  her  arms 
round  my  neck,  and  mine  twined  round  her 
in  the  fondest  manner.  What  I  wished  to 
ask  was,  whether  this  was  actually  the  case, 
or  whether  it  was  a  mere  invention  of  her 
own,  to  enhance  the  sense  of  my  obligations 
to  her ;  for  I  begin  to  doubt  everything  ? "  — 
"  Indeed,  it  was  so ;  and  very  much  surprised 
and  hurt  I  was  to  see  it."  "  Well  then,  Sir, 
I  can  only  say,  that  as  you  saw  her  sitting 
then,  so  she  had  been  sitting  for  the  last  year 
and  a  half,  almost  every  day  of  her  life,  by 
the  hour  together;  and  you  may  judge  your- 
self, knowing  what  a  nice  modest -looking 
girl  she  is,  whether,  after  having  been 
admitted  to  such  intimacy  with  so  sweet  a 
creature,  and  for  so  long  a  time,  it  is  not 
enough  to  make  any  one  frantic  to  be 
received  by  her  as  I  have  been  since  my 
return,  without  any  provocation  given  or 
cause  assigned  for  it.'*  The  old  man 
answered  very  seriously,  and,  as  I  think, 
sincerely,  '*  What  you  now  tell  me.  Sir,  mor- 
tifies and  shocks  me  as  much  as  it  can  do 
yourself.  I  had  no  idea  such  a  thing  was 
possible.  I  was  much  pained  at  what  I  saw ; 
but   I  thought  it    an  accident,  and   that   it 


LIBER    AMORIS 

would  never  happen  again." — "It  was  a 
constant  habit ;  it  has  happened  a  hundred 
times  since,  and  a  thousand  before.  I  lived 
on  her  caresses  as  my  daily  food,  nor  can  I 
live  without  them."  So  I  told  him  the 
whole  story,  "what  conjurations,  and  what 
mighty  magic  I  won  his  daughter  with,"  to 
be  anything  but  mine  for  life.  Nothing 
could  well  exceed  his  astonishment  and 
apparent  mortification.  "  What  I  had  said," 
he  owned,  "  had  left  a  weight  upon  his  mind 
that  he  should  not  easily  get  rid  of."  I  told 
him,  "  For  myself,  I  never  could  recover  the 
blow  I  had  received.  I  thought,  however, 
for  her  own  sake,  she  ought  to  alter  her 
present  behaviour.  Her  marked  neglect  and 
dislike,  so  far  from  justifying,  left  her  former 
intimacies  without  excuse ;  for  nothing  could 
reconcile  them  to  propriety,  or  even  a  pre  - 
tence  to  common  decency,  but  either  love, 
or  friendship  so  strong  and  pure  that  it  could 
Put  on  the  guise  of  love.  She  was  certainly 
a  singular  girl.  Did  she  think  it  right  and 
becoming  to  be  free  with  strangers,  and 
strange  to  old  friends  ? "  I  frankly  declared, 
"  I  did  not  see  how  it  was  in  human  nature 
for  any  one  who  was  not  rendered  callous  to 
such  familiarities  by  bestowing  them  indis- 
criminately on  every  one,  to  grant  the  extreme 
and  continued  indulgences  she  had  done  to 


LIBER   AMORIS 

me,  without  either  liking  the  man  at  first,  or 
coming  to  like  him  in  the  end,  in  spite  of 
herself.  When  my  addresses  had  nothing, 
and  could  have  nothing  honourable  in  them, 
she  gave  them  every  encouragement ;  when 
I  wished  to  make  them  honourable,  she 
treated  them  with  the  utmost  contempt. 
The  terms  we  had  been  all  along  on  were 
such  as  if  she  had  been  to  be  my  bride  next 
day.  It  was  only  when  I  wished  her  actually 
to  become  so,  to  ensure  her  own  character 
and  my  happiness,  that  she  shrunk  back  with 
precipitation  and  panic -fear.  There  seemed 
to  me  something  wrong  in  all  this ;  a  want 
both  of  common  propriety,  and  I  might  say, 
of  natural  feeling ;  yet,  with  all  her  faults,  I 
loved  her,  and  ever  should,  beyond  any  other 
human  being.  I  had  drank  in  the  poison  of 
her  sweetness  too  long  ever  to  be  cured  of 
it ;  and  though  I  might  find  it  to  be  poison 
in  the  end,  it  was  still  in  my  veins.  My  only 
ambition  was  to  be  permitted  to  live  with 
her,  and  to  die  in  her  arms.  Be  she  what 
she  would,  treat  me  how  she  would,  I  felt 
that  my  soul  was  wedded  to  hers ;  and  were 
she  a  mere  lost  creature,  I  would  try  to 
snatch  her  from  perdition,  and  marry  her 
to-morrow  if  she  would  have  me.  That  was 
the  question  —  "Would  she  have  me,  or 
would  she  not  ?"    He  said  he  could  not  tell ; 

103 


LIBER    AMORIS 

but  should  not  attempt  to  put  any  constraint 
upon  her  inclinations,  one  way  or  other.  I 
acquiesced,  and  added,  that  "  I  had  brought 
all  this  upon  myself,  by  acting  contrary  to 

the  suggestions  of  my  friend,  Mr. ,  who 

had  desired  me  to  take  no  notice  whether 
she  came  near  me  or  kept  away,  whether  she 
smiled  or  frowned,  was  kind  or  contemptu- 
ous —  all  you  have  to  do,  is  to  wait  patiently 
for  a  month  till  you  are  your  own  man,  as 
you  will  be  in  all  probability ;  then  make  her 
an  offer  of  your  hand,  and  if  she  refuses, 
there's  an  end  of  the  matter."  Mr.  L.  said, 
"  Well,  Sir,  and  I  don't  think  you  can  follow 
a  better  advice !  "  I  took  this  as  at  least  a 
sort  of  negative  encouragement,  and  so  we 
parted. 

TO  THE  SAME 

{In  continuation) 

My  dear  Friend,  The  next  day  I  felt 
almost  as  sailors  must  do  after  a  violent  storm 
over -night,  that  has  subsided  towards  day- 
break. The  morning  was  a  dull  and  stupid 
calm,  and  I  found  she  was  unwell,  in  conse- 
quence of  what  had  happened.  In  the  even- 
ing I  grew  more  uneasy,  and  determined  on 
going  into  the  country  for  a  week  or  two.  I 
gathered  up  the  fragments  of  the  locket  of 

104 


LIBER    AMORIS 

her  hair,  and  the  little  bronze  statue,  which 
were  strewed  about  the  floor,  kissed  them, 
folded  them  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  sent 
them  to  her,  with  these  lines  written  in  pencil 
on  the  outside  —  ^^  Pieces  of  a  broken  hearty 
to  be  kept  in  remembrance  of  the  unhappy. 
Farewell.^''  No  notice  was  taken;  nor  did 
I  expect  any.  The  following  morning  I 
requested  Betsey  to  pack  up  my  box  for  me, 
as  I  should  go  out  of  town  the  next  day,  and 
at  the  same  time  wrote  a  note  to  her  sister  to 
say,  I  should  take  it  as  a  favour  if  she  would 
please  to  accept  of  the  enclosed  copies  of  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield^  The  Man  of  Feeling  and 
Nature  and  Art,  in  lieu  of  three  volumes  of 
my  own  writings,  which  I  had  given  her  on 
different  occasions,  in  the  course  of  our 
acquaintance.  I  was  piqued,  in  fact,  that 
she  should  have  these  to  shew  as  proofs  of 
my  weakness,  and  as  if  I  thought  the  way  to 
win  her  was  by  plaguing  her  with  my  own 
performances.  She  sent  me  word  back  that 
the  books  I  had  sent  were  of  no  use  to  her, 
and  that  I  should  have  those  I  wished  for  in 
the  afternoon ;  but  that  she  could  not  before, 
as   she   had  lent   them  to  her  sister,  Mrs. 

M .     I  said,  *'  very  well ; "  but  observed 

(laughing)  to  Betsey,  "  It*s  a  bad  rule  to  give 
and  take;  so,  if  Sarah  won't  have  these 
books,  you  must ;  they  are  very  pretty  ones, 

105 


LIBER    AMORIS 

I  assure  you."  She  curtsied  and  took  them, 
according  to  the  family  custonR  In  the 
afternoon,  when  I  came  back  to  tea,  I  found 
the  little  girl  on  her  knees,  busy  in  packing 
up  my  things,  and  a  large  paper  parcel  on 
the  table,  which  I  could  not  at  first  tell  what 
to  make  of.  On  opening  it,  however,  I  soon 
found  what  it  was.  It  contained  a  number 
of  volumes  which  I  had  given  her  at  differ- 
ent times  (among  others,  a  little  Prayer- 
Book,  bound  in  crimson  velvet,  with  green 
silk  linings  ;  she  kissed  it  twenty  times  when 
she  received  it,  and  said  it  was  the  prettiest 
present  in  the  world,  and  that  she  would 
shew  it  to  her  aunt,  who  would  be  proud  of 
it)  —  and  all  these  she  had  returned  together. 
Her  name  in  the  title-page  was  cut  out  of 
them  all.  I  doubted  at  the  instant  whether 
she  had  done  this  before  or  after  I  had  sent 
for  them  back,  and  I  have  doubted  of  it 
since;  but  there  is  no  occasion  to  suppose 
her  ugly  all  over  with  hypocrisy.  Poor  little 
thing  1  She  has  enough  to  answer  for,  as  it 
is.  I  asked  Betsey  if  she  could  carry  a 
message  for  me,  and  she  said  "  YesP  "  Will 
you  tell  your  sister,  then,  that  I  did  not  want 
all  these  books;  and  give  my  love  to  her, 
and  say  that  I  shall  be  obliged  if  she  will 
still  keep  these  that  I  have  sent  back,  and 
tell  her  that  it  is  only  those  of  my  own  writing 

io6 


LIBER    AMORIS 

that  I  think  unworthy  of  her."  What  do 
you  think  the  little  imp  made  answer?  She 
raised  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
where  she  stood,  as  if  inspired  by  the  genius 
of  the  place,  and  said  —  "and  those  are 

THE   ONES   THAT   SHE   PRIZES   THE    MOST !  " 

If  there  were  ever  words  spoken  that  could 
revive  the  dead,  those  were  the  words.  Let 
me  kiss  them,  and  forget  that  my  ears  have 
heard  aught  else !  I  said,  **  Are  you  sure  of 
that?"  and  she  said,  "Yes,  quite  sure."  I 
told  her,  "  If  I  could  be,  I  should  be  very 
different  from  what  I  was."  And  I  became 
so  that  instant,  for  these  casual  words  carried 
assurance  to  my  heart  of  her  esteem  —  that 
once  implied,  I  had  proofs  enough  of  her 
fondness.  Oh !  how  I  felt  at  that  moment ! 
Restored  to  love,  hope,  and  joy,  by  a  breath 
which  I  had  caught  by  the  merest  accident, 
and  which  I  might  have  pined  in  absence  and 
mute  despair  for  want  of  hearing !  I  did  not 
know  how  to  contain  myself ;  I  was  childish, 
wanton,  drunk  with  pleasure.  I  gave  Betsey 
a  twenty -shilling  note  which  I  happened  to 
have  in  my  hand,  and  on  her  asking  "  What's 
this  for,  Sir  ? "  I  said,  "  It's  for  you.  Don't 
you  think  it  worth  that  to  be  made  happy  ? 
You  once  made  me  very  wretched  by  some 
words  I  heard  you  drop,  and  now  you  have 
made  me  as  happy;  and  all  I* wish  you  is, 

107 


LIBER   AMORIS 

when  you  grow  up,  that  you  may  find  some 
one  to  love  you  as  well  as  I  do  your  sister, 
and  that  you  may  love  better  than  she  does 
me  I  "  I  continued  in  this  state  of  delirium 
or  dotage  all  that  day  and  the  next,  talked 
incessantly,  laughed  at  every  thing,  and  was 
so  extravagant,  nobody  could  tell  what  was 
the  matter  with  me.  I  murmured  her  name ; 
I  blest  her;  I  folded  her  to  my  heart  in 
delicious  fondness ;  I  called  her  by  my  own 
name;    I  worshipped  her:    I  was   mad   for 

her.     I   told   P I  should  laugh  in  her 

face,  if  ever  she  pretended  not  to  like  me 
again.  Her  mother  came  in  and  said,  she 
hoped  I  should  excuse  Sarah's  coming  up. 
"  Oh,  Ma'am,"  I  said,  "  I  have  no  wish  to 
see  her;  I  feel  her  at  my  heart;  she  does 
not  hate  me  after  all,  and  I  wish  for  nothing. 
Let  her  come  when  she  will,  she  is  to  me 
welcomer  than  light,  than  life ;  but  let  it  be 
in  her  own  sweet  time,  and  at  her  own  dear 
pleasure."  Betsey  also  told  me  she  was  *'  so 
glad  to  get  the  books  back."  I,  however, 
sobered  and  wavered  (by  degrees)  from  see- 
ing nothing  of  her,  day  after  day;  and  in  less 
than  a  week  I  was  devoted  to  the  Infernal 
Gods.  I  could  hold  out  no  longer  than  the 
Monday  evening  following.  I  sent  a  message 
to  her ;  she  returned  an  ambiguous  answer ; 
but  she  came  up.     Pity  me,  my  friend,  for 

io8 


LIBER    AMORIS 

the  shame  of  this  recital.  Pity  me  for  the 
pain  of  having  ever  had  to  make  it  I  If  the 
spirits  of  mortal  creatures,  purified  by  faith 
and  hope,  can  (according  to  the  highest 
assurances)  ever,  during  thousands  of  years 
of  smooth-rolling  eternity  and  balmy,  sainted 
repose,  forget  the  pain,  the  toil,  the  anguish, 
the  helplessness,  and  the  despair  they  have 
suffered  here,  in  this  frail  being,  then  may  I 
forget  that  withering  hour,  and  her,  that  fair, 
pale  form  that  entered,  my  inhuman  betrayer, 
and  my  only  earthly  love !  She  said,  "  Did 
you  wish  to  speak  to  me.  Sir?'*  I  said, 
"  Yes,  may  I  not  speak  to  you  ?  I  wanted 
to  see  you  and  be  friends."  I  rose  up, 
offered  her  an  arm  -chair  which  stood  facing, 
bowed  on  it,  and  knelt  to  her  adoring.  She 
said  (going)  "  If  that's  all,  I  have  nothing  to 
say."  I  replied,  "  Why  do  you  treat  me 
thus?  What  have  I  done  to  become  thus 
hateful  to  you  ?  "  Answer ^  "  I  always  told 
you  I  had  no  affection  for  you."  You  may 
suppose  this  was  a  blow,  after  the  imaginary 
honey-moon  in  which  I  had  passed  the  pre- 
ceding week.  I  was  stunned  by  it ;  my  heart 
sunk  within  me.  I  contrived  to  say,  "  Nay, 
my  dear  girl,  not  always  neither ;  for  did  you 
not  once  (if  I  might  presume  to  look  back  to 
those  happy,  happy  times),  when  you  were 
sitting  on  my  knee  as  usual,  embracing  and 

109 


LIBER    AMORIS 

embraced,  and  I  asked  if  you  could  not  love 
me  at  last,  did  you  not  make  answer,  in  the 
softest  tones  that  ever  man  heard,  '  /  could 
easily  say  sOy  whether  I  did  or  not ;  you  should 
judge  by  my  actions  I '  Was  I  to  blame  in 
taking  you  at  your  word,  when  every  hope  I 
had  depended  on  your  sincerity  ?  And  did 
you  not  say  since  I  came  back,  '  Your  feel- 
ings to  me  were  the  same  as  ever?^  Why 
then  is  your  behaviour  so  different  ?  "  S. 
**  Is  it  nothing,  your  exposing  me  to  the 
whole  house  in  the  way  you  did  the  other 
evening?"  H.  "  Nay,  that  was  the  conse- 
quence of  your  cruel  reception  of  me,  not 
the  cause  of  it.  I  had  better  have  gone 
away  last  year,  as  I  proposed  to  do,  unless 
you  would  give  some  pledge  of  your  fidelity ; 
but  it  was  your  own  offer  that  I  should 
remain.  '  Why  should  I  go  ? '  you  said, 
*  Why  could  we  not  go  on  the  same  as  we 
had  done,  and  say  nothing  about  the  word 
forever ?^^^  S.  "And  how  did  you  behave 
when  you  returned?"  H.  "That  was  all 
forgiven  when  we  last  parted,  and  your  last 
words  were,  '  I  should  find  you  the  same  as 
ever'  when  I  came  home?  Did  you  not 
that  very  day  enchant  and  madden  me  over 
again  by  the  purest  kisses  and  embraces,  and 
did  I  not  go  from  you  (as  I  said)  adoring, 
confiding,  with   every  assurance  of   mutual 


LIBER    AMORIS 

esteem  and  friendship  ? "  S.  "  Yes,  and  in 
your  absence  I  found  that  you  had  told  my 
aunt  what  had  passed  between  us."  H.  "  It 
was  to  induce  her  to  extort  your  real  senti- 
ments from  you,  that  you  might  no  longer 
make  a  secret  of  your  true  regard  for  me, 
which  your  actions  (but  not  your  w^ords) 
confessed."  S.  "  I  own  I  have  been  guilty 
of  improprieties,  which  you  have  gone  and 
repeated,  not  only  in  the  house,  but  out  of 
it;  so  that  it  has  come  to  my  ears  from 
various  quarters,  as  if  I  was  a  light  charac- 
ter. And  I  am  determined  in  future  to  be 
guided  by  the  advice  of  my  relations,  and 
particularly  of  my  aunt,  whom  I  consider 
as  my  best  friend,  and  keep  every  lodger 
at  a  proper  distance."  You  will  find  here- 
after that  her  favourite  lodger,  whom  she 
visits  daily,  had  left  the  house ;  so  that  she 
might  easily  make  and  keep  this  vow  of 
extraordinary  self-denial.  Precious  little 
dissembler!  Yet  her  aunt,  her  best  friend, 
says,  "  No,  Sir,  no  ;  Sarah's  no  hypocrite  !  " 
which  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe ;  and  yet 
my  great  and  unpardonable  offence  is  to 
have  entertained  passing  doubts  on  this  deli- 
cate point.  I  said.  Whatever  errors  I  had 
committed,  arose  from  my  anxiety  to  have 
everything  explained  to  her  honour:  my 
conduct  shewed  that  I  had  that  at  heart,  and 


LIBER    AMORIS 

that  I  built  on  the  purity  of  her  character  as 
on  a  rock.  My  esteem  for  her  amounted  to 
adoration.  "  She  did  not  want  adoration." 
It  was  only  when  any  thing  happened  to 
imply  that  I  had  been  mistaken,  that  I  com- 
mitted any  extravagance,  because  I  could 
not  bear  to  think  her  short  of  perfection. 
"  She  was  far  from  perfection,"  she  replied, 
with  an  air  and  manner  (oh,  my  God!)  as 
near  it  as  possible.  "  How  could  she  accuse 
me  of  a  want  of  regard  to  her  ?  It  was  but 
the  other  day,  Sarah,"  I  said  to  her,  '*when 
that  little  circumstance  of  the  books  hap- 
pened, and  I  fancied  the  expressions  your 
sister  dropped  proved  the  sincerity  of  all 
your  kindness  to  me  —  you  don't  know  how 
my  heart  melted  within  me  at  the  thought, 
that  after  all,  I  might  be  dear  to  you.  New 
hopes  sprung  up  in  my  heart,  and  I  felt  as 
Adam  must  have  done  w^hen  his  Eve  was 
created  for  him !  "  "  She  had  heard  enough 
of  that  sort  of  conversation,"  (moving 
towards  the  door).  This,  I  own,  was  the 
unkindest  cut  of  all.  I  had,  in  that  case,  no 
hopes  whatever.  I  felt  that  I  had  expended 
words  in  vain,  and  that  the  conversation 
below  stairs  (which  I  told  you  of  when  I  saw 
you)  had  spoiled  her  taste  for  mine.  If  the 
allusion  had  been  classical  I  should  have 
been  to  blame  ;  but  it  was  scriptural,  it  was 


LIBER    AMORIS 

a  sort  of  religious  courtship,  and  Miss  L. 
is  religious  I 

At  once  he  took  his  Muse  and  dipt  her 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  Scripture. 

It  would  not  do  —  the  lady  could  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  This  is  a  poor 
attempt  at  levity.  Alas  !  I  am  sad  enough. 
"  Would  she  go  and  leave  me  so  ?  If  it  was 
only  my  own  behaviour,  I  still  did  not  doubt 
of  success.  I  knew  the  sincerity  of  my 
love,  and  she  would  be  convinced  of  it  in 
time.  If  that  was  all,  I  did  not  care :  but 
tell  me  true,  is  there  not  a  new  attachment 
that  is  the  real  cause  of  your  estrangement  ? 
Tell  me,  my  sweet  friend,  and  before  you  tell 
me,  give  me  your  hand  (nay,  both  hands) 
that  I  may  have  something  to  support  me 
under  the  dreadful  conviction."  She  let  me 
take  her  hands  in  mine,  saying,  *'  She  sup- 
posed there  could  be  no  objection  to  that," 
—  as  if  she  acted  on  the  suggestions  of 
others,  instead  of  following  her  own  will  — 
but  still  avoided  giving  me  any  answer.  I 
conjured  her  to  tell  me  the  worst,  and  kill 
me  on  the  spot.     Any  thing  was  better  than 

my  present  state.   I  said,  "  Is  it  Mr.  C ? " 

She  smiled,  and  said  with  gay  indifference, 

*'  Mr.  C was  here  a  very  short  time.'* 

"  Well,  then,  was  it  Mr. ? "     She  hesi- 

"3 


LIBER    AMORIS 

tated,  and  then  replied  faintly,  "  No."  This 
was  a  mere  trick  to  mislead;  one  of  the 
profoundnesses  of  Satan,  in  which  she  is  an 
adept.  "But,"  she  added  hastily,  "she 
could  make  no  more  confidences."  "  Then," 
said  I,  "  you  have  something  to  communi- 
cate." "  No ;  but  she  had  once  mentioned 
a  thing  of  the  sort,  which  I  had  hinted  to 
her  mother,  though  it  signified  little."  All 
this  while  I  was  in  tortures.  Every  word, 
every  half-denial,  stabbed  me.  "  Had  she 
any  tie  ? "  "  No,  I  have  no  tie !"  "  You  are 
not  going  to  be  married  soon ? "  "I  don't 
intend  ever  to  marry  at  all !  "  "  Can't  you 
be  friends  with  me  as  of  old  ? "  "  She 
could  give  no  promises."  "  Would  she 
make  her  own  terms  ? "  "  She  would  make 
none."  —  "I  was  sadly  afraid  the  little  image 
was  dethroned  from  her  heart,  as  I  had 
dashed  it  to  the  ground  the  other  night." — 
"  She  was  neither  desperate  nor  violent."  I 
did  not  answer  —  "  But  deliberate  and  dead- 
ly,"—  though  I  might;  and  so  she  vanished 
in  this  running  fight  of  question  and  answer, 
in  spite  of  my  vain  efforts  to  detain  her. 
The  cockatrice,  I  said,  mocks  me:  so  she 
has  always  done.  The  thought  was  a  dagger 
to  me.  My  head  reeled,  my  heart  recoiled 
within  me.  I  was  stung  with  scorpions ; 
my  flesh  crawled ;  I  was  choked  with  rage  ; 

114 


LIBER   AMORIS 

her  scorn  scorched  me  like  flames ;  her  air 
(her  heavenly  air)  withdrawn  from  me,  stifled 
me,  and  left  me  gasping  for  breath  and 
being.  It  was  a  fable.  She  started  up  in 
her  own  likeness,  a  serpent  in  place  of  a 
woman.  She  had  fascinated,  she  had  stung 
me,  and  had  returned  to  her  proper  shape, 
gliding  from  me  after  inflicting  the  mortal 
wound,  and  instilling  deadly  poison  into 
every  pore;  but  her  form  lost  none  of  its 
original  brightness  by  the  change  of  charac- 
ter, but  was  all  glittering,  beauteous,  volup- 
tuous grace.  Seed  of  the  serpent  or  of  the 
woman,  she  was  divine!  I  felt  that  she 
was  a  witch,  and  had  bewitched  me.  Fate 
had  enclosed  me  round  about.  /  was  trans- 
formed too,  no  longer  human  (any  more 
than  she,  to  whom  I  had  knit  myself)  my 
feelings  were  marble;  my  blood  was  of 
molten  lead;  my  thoughts  on  fire.  I  was 
taken  out  of  myself,  wrapt  into  another 
sphere,  far  from  the  light  of  day,  of  hope,  of 
love.  I  had  no  natural  affection  left ;  she 
had  slain  me,  but  no  other  thing  had  power 
over  me.  Her  arms  embraced  another ;  but 
her  mock-embrace,  the  phantom  of  her  love, 
still  bound  me,  and  I  had  not  a  wish  to 
escape.  So  I  felt  then,  and  so  perhaps  shall 
feel  till  I  grow  old  and  die,  nor  have  any 
desire  that  my  years  should  last  longer  than 

"5 


LIBER    AMORIS 

they  are  linked  in  the  chain  of  those  amor- 
ous folds,  or  than  her  enchantments  steep 
my  soul  in  oblivion  of  all  other  things  1  I 
started  to  find  myself  alone  —  for  ever  alone, 
without  a  creature'  to  love  me.  I  looked 
round  the  room  for  help ;  I  saw  the  tables, 
the  chairs,  the  places  where  she  stood  or 
sat,  empty,  deserted,  dead.  I  could  not 
stay  where  I  was ;  I  had  no  one  to  go  to 
but  to  the  parent-mischief,  the  preternatural 
hag,  that  had  "  drugged  this  posset "  of  her 
daughter's  charms  and  falsehood  for  me, 
and  I  went  down  and  (such  was  my  weak- 
ness and  helplessness)  sat  with  her  for  an 
hour,  and  talked  with  her  of  her  daughter, 
and  the  sweet  days  we  had  passed  together, 
and  said  I  thought  her  a  good  girl,  and 
believed  that  if  there  was  no  rival,  she  still 
had  a  regard  for  me  at  the  bottom  of  her 
heart ;  and  how  I  liked  her  all  the  better 
for  her  coy,  maiden  airs :  and  I  received 
the  assurance  over  and  over  that  there  was 
no  one  else ;  and  that  Sarah  (they  all  knew) 
never  staid  five  minutes  with  any  other 
lodger,  while  with  me  she  would  stay  by  the 
hour  together,  in  spite  of  all  her  father 
could  say  to  her  (what  were  her  motives, 
was  best  known  to  herself!)  and  while  we 
were  talking  of  her,  she  came  bounding  into 
the  room,  smiling  with  smothered  delight  at 

ii6 


LIBER    AMORIS 

the  consummation  of  my  folly  and  her  own 
art;  and  I  asked  her  mother  whether  she 
thought  she  looked  as  if  she  hated  me,  and 
I  took  her  wrinkled,  withered,  cadaverous, 
clammy  hand  at  parting,  and  kissed  it. 
Faugh ! — 

I  will  make  an  end  of  this  story ;  there  is 
something  in  it  discordant  to  honest  ears. 
I  left  the  house  the  next  day,  and  returned 
to  Scotland  in  a  state  so  near  to  phrenzy, 
that  I  take  it  the  shades  sometimes  ran  into 

one  another.     R met  me  the  day  after  I 

arrived,  and  will  tell  you  the  way  I  was  in. 
I  was  like  a  person  in  a  high  fever;  only 
mine  was  in  the  mind  instead  of  the  body. 
It  had  the  same  irritating,  uncomfortable 
effect  on  the  bye-standers.  I  was  incapable 
of  any  application,  and  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done,  had  it  not  been  for  the 

kindness  of  .     I  came  to  see  you,  to 

"  bestow  some  of  my  tediousness  upon  you, 
but  you  were  gone  from  home.  Everything 
went  on  well  as  to  the  law  business ;  and  as 
it  approached  to  a  conclusion,  1  wrote  to  my 

good  friend  P to  go  to  M ,  who  had 

married  her  sister,  and  ask  him  if  it  would 
be  worth  my  while  to  make  her  a  formal 
offer,  as  soon  as  I  was  free,  as,  with  the 
least  encouragement,  I  was  ready  to  throw 
myself  at  her  feet ;  and  to  know,  in  case  of 

117 


LIBER   AMORIS 

refusal,  whether  I  might  go  back  there  and 
be  treated  as  an  old  friend.  Not  a  word  of 
answer  could  be  got  from  her  on  either 
point,  notwithstanding  every  importunity 
and  intreaty;    but    it   was   the   opinion   of 

M that  I  might  go  and  try  my  fortune. 

I  did  so  with  joy,  with  something  like  confi- 
dence. I  thought  her  giving  no  positive 
answer  implied  a  chance,  at  least,  of  the 
reversion  of  her  favour,  in  case  I  behaved 
well.  All  was  false,  hollow,  insidious.  The 
first  night  after  I  got  home,  I  slept  on  dowiw 
In  Scotland,  the  flint  had  been  my  pillow. 
But  now  I  slept  under  the  same  roof  with 
her.  What  softness,  what  balmy  repose  in 
the  very  thought !  I  saw  her  that  same  day 
and  shook  hands  with  her,  and  told  her  how 
glad  I  was  to  see  her ;  and  she  was  kind  and 
comfortable,  though  still  cold  and  distant. 
Her  manner  was  altered  from  what  it  was 
the  last  time.  She  still  absented  herself 
from  the  room,  but  was  mild  and  affable 
when  she  did  come.  She  was  pale,  dejected, 
evidently  uneasy  about  something,  and  had 
been  ill.  I  thought  it  was  perhaps  her  reluc- 
tance to  yield  to  my  wishes,  her  pity  for 
what  I  suffered;  and  that  in  the  struggle 
between  both,  she  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
How  I  worshipped  her  at  these  moments! 
We  had  a  long  interview  the  third  day,  and 

ii8 


LIBER   AMORIS 

I  thought  all  was  doing  well.  I  found  her 
sitting  at  work  in  the  window -seat  of  the 
front  parlour ;  and  on  my  asking  if  I  might 
come  in,  she  made  no  objection.  I  sat  down 
by  her;  she  let  me  take  her  hand;  I  talked 
to  her  of  indifferent  things,  and  of  old  times. 
I  asked  her  if  she  would  put  some  new  frills 
on  my  shirts? — "With  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure." If  she  could  get  the  little  image 
mended  ?  "  It  was  broken  in  three  pieces, 
and  the  sword  was  gone,  but  she  would  try." 
I  then  asked  her  to  make  up  a  plaid  silk  which 
I  had  given  her  in  the  winter,  and  which  she 
said  would  make  a  pretty  summer  gown.  I 
so  longed  to  see  her  in  it !  —  '*  She  had  little 
time  to  spare,  but  perhaps  might  ! "  Think 
what  I  felt,  talking  peaceably,  kindly,  ten- 
derly with  my  love,  —  not  passionately,  not 
violently.  I  tried  to  take  pattern  by  her 
patient  meekness,  as  I  thought  it,  and  to 
subdue  my  desires  to  her  will.  I  then  sued 
to  her,  but  respectfully,  to  be  admitted  to 
her  friendship  —  she  must  know  I  was  as 
true  a  friend  as  ever  woman  had  —  or  if 
there  was  a  bar  to  our  intimacy  from  a 
dearer  attachment,  to  let  me  know  it  frankly, 
as  I  shewed  her  all  my  heart.  She  drew  out 
her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes  **  of 
tears  which  sacred  pity  had  engendered 
there."     Was  it  so  or  not  ?     T  cannot  tell. 

119 


LIBER    AMORIS 

But  SO  she  stood  (while  I  pleaded  my  cause 
to  her  with  all  the  earnestness,  and  fondness 
in  the  world)  with  the  tears  trickling  from 
her  eye-lashes,  her  head  stooping,  her  atti- 
tude fixed,  with  the  finest  expression  that 
ever  was  seen  of  mixed  regret,  pity,  and 
stubborn  resolution  ;  but  without  speaking  a 
word,  without  altering  a  feature.  It  was  like 
a  petrifaction  of  a  human  face  in  the  softest 
moment  of  passion.  "Ah  1 "  I  said,  "how 
you  look !  I  have  prayed  again  and  again 
while  I  was  away  from  you,  in  the  agony  of 
my  spirit,  that  I  might  but  live  to  see  you 
look  so  again,  and  then  breathe  my  last ! " 
I  intreated  her  to  give  me  some  explanation. 
In  vain !  At  length  she  said  she  must  go, 
and  disappeared  like  a  spirit.  That  w^eek 
she  did  all  the  little  trifling  favours  I  had 
asked  of  her.  The  frills  were  put  on,  and 
she  sent  up  to  know  if  I  wanted  any  more 
done.  She  got  the  Buonaparte  mended. 
This  was  like  healing  old  wounds  indeed  I 
How  ?  As  follows,  for  thereby  hangs  the 
conclusion  of  my  tale.     Listen. 

I  had  sent  a  message  one  evening  to  speak 
to  her  about  some  special  affairs  of  the  house, 
and  received  no  answer.  I  waited  an  hour 
expecting  her,  and  then  went  out  in  great 
vexation  at  my  disappointment.  I  com- 
plained to  her  mother  a  day  or  two  after. 


LIBER    AMORIS 

saying  I  thought  it  so  unlike  Sarah's  usual 
propriety  of  behaviour,  that  she  must  mean  it 

as  a  mark  of  disrespect.     Mrs.  L said, 

**  La !  Sir,  you're  always  fancying  things. 
Why,  she  was  dressing  to  go  out,  and  she 
was  only  going  to  get  the  little  image  you're 
both  so  fond  of  mended ;  and  it's  to  be  done 
this  evening.  She  has  been  to  two  or  three 
places  to  see  about  it,  before  she  could  get 
anyone  to  undertake  it."  My  heart,  my  poor 
fond  heart,  almost  melted  within  me  at  this 
news.  I  answered,  "  Ah  I  Madam,  that's 
always  the  way  with  the  dear  creature.  I 
am  finding  fault  with  her  and  thinking  the 
hardest  things  of  her ;  and  at  that  very  time 
she's  doing  something  to  shew  the  most 
delicate  attention,  and  that  she  has  no 
greater  satisfaction  than  in  gratifying  my 
wishes !  "  On  this  we  had  some  farther  talk, 
and  I  took  nearly  the  whole  of  the  lodgings 
at  a  hundred  guineas  a  year,  that  (as  I  said) 
she  might  have  a  little  leisure  to  sit  at  her 
needle  of  an  evening,  or  to  read  if  she  chose, 
or  to  walk  out  when  it  was  fine.  She  was 
not  in  good  health,  and  it  would  do  her  good 
to  be  less  confined.  I  would  be  the  drudge 
and  she  should  no  longer  be  the  slave.  I 
asked  nothing  in  return.  To  see  her  happy, 
to  make  her  so,  was  to  be  so  myself.  —  This 
was  agreed  to.     I  went  over  to  Blackheath 


LIBER    AMORIS 

that  evening,  delighted  as  I  could  be  after 
all  I  had  suffered,  and  lay  the  whole  of  the 
next  morning  on  the  heath  under  the  open 
sky,  dreaming  of  my  earthly  Goddess.  This 
was  Sunday.  That  evening  I  returned,  for 
I  could  hardly  bear  to  be  for  a  moment  out 
of  the  house  where  she  was,  and  the  next 
morning  she  tapped  at  the  door  —  it  was 
opened  —  it  was  she  —  she  hesitated  and 
then  came  forward:  she  had  got  the  little 
image  in  her  hand,  I  took  it,  and  blest  her 
from  my  heart.  She  said  "  They  had  been 
obliged  to  put  some  new  pieces  to  it."  I 
said  "  I  didn't  care  how  it  was  done,  so  that 
I  had  it  restored  to  me  safe,  and  by  her."  I 
thanked  her  and  begged  to  shake  hands  with 
her.  She  did  so,  and  as  I  held  the  only 
hand  in  the  world  that  I  never  wished  to  let 
go,  I  looked  up  in  her  face,  and  said  "  Have 
pity  on  me,  have  pity  on  me,  and  save  me  if 
you  can  1 "  Not  a  word  of  answer,  but  she 
looked  full  in  my  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say, 
♦*  Well,  I'll  think  of  it;  and  if  I  can,  I  will 
save  you !  "  We  talked  about  the  expense  of 
repairing  the  figure.  "  Was  the  man  wait- 
ing.?"—  "No,  she  had  fetched  it  on  Satur- 
day evening."  I  said  I'd  give  her  the  money 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  then  shook 
hands  with  her  again  in  token  of  reconcilia- 
tion ;  and  she  went  waving  out  of  the  room, 


LIBER    AMORIS 

but  at  the  door  turned  round  and  looked  full 
at  me,  as  she  did  the  first  time  she  beguiled 
me  of  my  heart.     This  was  the  last. — 

All  that  day  I  longed  to  go  down  stairs  to 
ask  her  and  her  mother  to  set  out  with  me 
for  Scotland  on  Wednesday,  and  on  Satur- 
day I  would  make  her  my  wife.  Something 
withheld  me.  In  the  evening,  however,  I 
could  not  rest  without  seeing  her,  and  I  said 
to  her  younger  sister,  **  Betsey,  if  Sarah  will 
come  up  now,  I'll  pay  her  what  she  laid  out 
for  me  the  other  day." — "  My  sister's  gone 
out,  Sir,"  was  the  answer.  What  again ! 
thought  I,  That's  somewhat  sudden.    I  told 

P her  sitting  in  the  window-seat  of  the 

front  parlour  boded  me  no  good.  It  was 
not  in  her  old  character.  She  did  not  use 
to  know  there  were  doors  or  windows  in  the 
house  —  and  now  she  goes  out  three  times 
in  a  week.  It  is  to  meet  some  one,  I'll  lay 
my  life  on't.  "  Where  is  she  gone  ?  '* — ''  To 
my  grandmother's.  Sir."  "  Where  does  your 
grandmother  live  now  ?  "  —  "At  Somers* 
Town."  I  immediately  set  out  to  Somers' 
Town.  I  passed  one  or  two  streets,  and  at 
last  turned  up  King  Street,  thinkmg  it  most 
likely  she  would  return  that  way  home.  I 
passed  a  house  in  King  Street  where  I  had 
once  lived,  and  had  not  proceeded  many 
paces,  ruminating   on   chance   and  change 

123 


LIBER    AMORIS 

and  old  times,  when  I  saw  her  coming 
towards  me.  I  felt  a  strange  pang  at  the 
sight,  but  I  thought  her  alone.  Some  people 
before  me  moved  on,  and  I  saw  another 
person  with  her.  The  murder  was  out.  It 
was  a  tall,  rather  well-looking  young  man, 
but  I  did  not  at  first  recollect  him.  We 
passed  at  the  crossing  of  the  street  without 
speaking.  Will  you  believe  it,  after  all  that 
had  past  between  us  for  two  years,  after 
what  had  passed  in  the  last  half-year, 
after  what  had  passed  that  very  morning, 
she  went  by  me  without  even  changing 
countenance,  without  expressing  the  slight- 
est emotion,  without  betraying  either  shame 
or  pity  or  remorse  or  any  other  feeling  that 
any  other  human  being  but  herself  must 
have  shewn  in  the  same  situation.  She  had 
no  time  to  prepare  for  acting  a  part,  to  sup- 
press her  feefings  —  the  truth  is,  she  has  not 
one  natural  feeling  in  her  bosom  to  suppress. 
I  turned  and  looked  —  they  also  turned  and 
looked  —  and  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  we 
both  retrod  our  steps  and  passed  again,  in 
the  same  way.  I  went  home.  I  was  stifled. 
I  could  not  stay  in  the  house,  walked  into 
the  street  and  met  them  coming  towards 
home.  As  soon  as  he  had  left  her  at  the 
door  (I  fancy  she  had  prevailed  with  him  to 
accompany  her,  dreading  some  violence)  I 

124 


LIBER    AMORIS 

returned,  went  up  stairs,  and  requested  an 
interview.  Tell  her,  I  said,  I'm  in  excellent 
temper  and  good  spirits,  but  I  must  see  her  ! 
She  came  smiling,  and  I  said,  "  Come  in,  my 
dear  girl,  and  sit  down,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it,  how  it  is  and  who  it  is." — "  What,"  she 

said,  '*  do  you  mean  Mr.  C .-*  "     "  Oh," 

said  I,  *'  Then  it  is  he  1  Ah !  you  rogue,  I 
always  suspected  there  was  something  be- 
tween you,  but  you  know  you  denied  it 
lustily :  why  did  you  not  tell  me  all  about 
it  at  the  time,  instead  of  letting  me  suffer  as 
I  have  done  ?  But,  however,  no  reproaches. 
I  only  wish  it  may  all  end  happily  and 
honourably  for  you,  and  I  am  satisfied. 
But,"  I  said,  "  you  know  you  used  to  tell 
me,  you  despised  looks." — "  She  didn't  think 

Mr.  C was  so  particularly  handsome." 

"  No,  but  he's  very  well  to  pass,  and  a  well- 
grown  youth  into  the  bargain."  Pshaw  1 
let  me  put  an  end  to  the  fulsome  detail.  I 
found  he  had  lived  over  the  way,  that  he 
had  been  lured  thence,  no  doubt,  almost  a 
year  before,  that  they  had  first  spoken  in 
the  street,  and  that  he  had  never  once 
hinted  at  marriage,  and  had  gone  away, 
because  (as  he  said)  they  were  too  much 
together,  and  that  it  was  better  for  her  to 
meet  him  occasionally  out  of  doors.  "  There 
could  be  no  harm  in  them  walking  together." 

125 


LIBER    AMORIS 

**No,  but  you  may  go  some  where  after- 
wards."— "  One  must  trust  to  one's  principle 
for  that."  Consummate  hypocrite !  *  *  * 
*  *  *  I  told  her  Mr.  M ,  who  had  mar- 
ried her  sister,  did  not  wish  to  leave  the 
house.  I,  who  would  have  married  her,  did 
not  wish  to  leave  it.  I  told  her  I  hoped  I 
should  not  live  to  see  her  come  to  shame, 
after  all  my  love  of  her ;  but  put  her  on  her 
guard  as  well  as  I  could,  and  said,  after  the 
lengths  she  had  permitted  herself  with  me, 
I  could  not  help  being  alarmed  at  the  influ- 
ence of  one  over  her,  whom  she  could 
hardly  herself  suppose  to  have  a  tenth  part 
of  my  esteem  for  herl!  She  made  no 
answer  to  this,  but  thanked  me  coldly  for 
my  good  advice,  and  rose  to  go.  I  begged 
her  to  sit  a  few  minutes,  that  I  might  try  to 
recollect  if  there  was  anything  else  I  wished 
to  say  to  her,  perhaps  for  the  last  time;  and 
then,  not  finding  anything,  I  bade  her  good 
night,  and  asked  for  a  farewell  kiss.  Do 
you  know  she  refused;  so  little  does  she 
understand  what  is  due  to  friendship,  or 
love,  or  honour!  We  parted  friends,  how- 
ever, and  I  felt  deep  grief,  but  no  enmity 

against  her.     I  thought  C had  pressed 

his  suit  after  I  went,  and  had  prevailed. 
There  was  no  hiarm  in  that  —  a  little  fickle- 
ness or  so,  a  little  over-pretension  to  unalter- 

126 


LIBER    AMORIS 

able  attachment  —  but  that  was  all.  She 
liked  him  better  than  me  —  it  was  my  hard 
hap,  but  I  must  bear  it.  I  went  out  to 
roam  the  desert  streets,  when,  turning  a 
corner,  whom  should  I  meet  but  her  very 
lover  ?  I  went  up  to  him  and  asked  for  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  on  a  subject  that 
was  highly  interesting  to  me  and  I  believed 
not  indifferent  to  him  :  and  in  the  course  of 
four  hours'  talk,  it  came  out  that  for  three 
months  previous  to  my  quitting  London  for 
Scotland,  she  had  been  playing  the  same 
game  with  him  as  with  me  —  that  he  break- 
fasted first,  and  enjoyed  an  hour  of  her 
society,  and  then  I  took  my  turn,  so  that  we 
never  jostled  ;  and  this  explained  why,  when 
he  came  back  sometimes  and  passed  my 
door,  as  she  was  sitting  in  my  lap,  she 
coloured  violently,  thinking  if  her  lover 
looked  in,  what  a  denouement  there  would  be. 
He  could  not  help  again  and  again  express- 
ing his  astonishment  at  finding  that  our 
intimacy  had  continued  unimpaired  up  to  so 
late  a  period  after  he  came,  and  when  they 
were  on  the  most  intimate  footing.  She 
used  to  deny  positively  to  him  that  there 
was  anything  between  us,  just  as  she  used 
to  assure  me  with  impenetrable  effrontery 

that    "  Mr.  C was  nothing  to  her,  but 

merely  a  lodger."     All  this  while  she  kept 


127 


LIBER    AMORIS 

up  the  farce  of  her  romantic  attachment  to 
her  old  lover,  vowed  that  she  never  could 
alter  in  that  respect,  let  me  go  to  Scotland 
on  the  solemn  and  repeated  assurance  that 
there  was  no  new  flame,  that  there  was  no 
bar  between  us  but  this  shadowy  love — I 
leave  her  on  this  understanding,  she  becomes 
more  fond  or  more  intimate  with  her  new 
lover;  he  quitting  the  house  (whether  tired 
out  or  not,  I  can't  say)  —  in  revenge  she 
ceases  to  write  to  me,  keeps  me  in  wretched 
suspense,  treats  me  like  something  loath- 
some to  her  when  I  return  to  enquire  the 
cause,  denies  it  with  scorn  and  impudence, 
destroys  me  and  shews  no  pity,  no  desire  to 
soothe  or  shorten  the  pangs  she  has  occa- 
sioned by  her  wantonness  and  hypocrisy, 
and  wishes  to  linger  the  affair  on  to  the  last 
moment,  going  out  to  keep  an  appointment 
with  another  while  she  pretends  to  be  oblig- 
ing me  in  the  tenderest  point  (which  C 

himself  said  was  too  much).  .  .  .  What 
do  you  think  of  all  this  ?  Shall  I  tell  you 
my  opinion  ?  But  I  must  try  to  do  it  in 
another  letter. 

TO  THE  SAME 

{In  conclusion) 
I  DID  not  sleep  a  wink  all  that  night ;  nor 
did  I  know  till  the  next  day  the  full  meaning 

128 


LIBER    AMORIS 

of  what  had  happened  to  me.  With  the 
morning's  light,  conviction  glared  in  upon 
me  that  I  had  not  only  lost  her  for  ever  — 
but  every  feeling  I  had  ever  had  towards 
her  —  respect,  tenderness,  pity  —  all  but  my 
fatal  passion,  was  gone.  The  whole  was  a 
mockery,  a  frightful  illusion.  I  had  embraced 
the  false  Florimel  instead  of  the  true;  or 
was  like  the  man  in  the  Arabian  Nights  who 
had  married  digouL  How  different  was  the 
idea  I  once  had  of  her  ?    Was  this  she, 

—  "  Who  had  been  beguiled  —  she  who  was  made 

Within  a  gentle  bosom  to  be  laid  — 

To  bless  and  to  be  blessed  —  to  be  heart -bare 

To  one  who  found  his  bettered  likeness  there  — 

To  think  for  ever  with  him,  like  a  bride  — 

To  haunt  his  eye,  like  taste  personified  — 

To  double  his  delight,  to  share  his  sorrow, 

And  like  a  morning  beam,  wake  to  him  every  morrow  ?  " 

I  saw  her  pale,  cold  form  glide  silent  by 
me,  dead  to  shame  as  to  pity.  Still  I  seemed 
to  clasp  this  piece  of  witchcraft  to  my  bosom  ; 
this  lifeless  image,  which  was  all  that  was  left 
of  my  love,  was  the  only  thing  to  which  my 
sad  heart  clung.  Were  she  dead,  should  I 
not  wish  to  gaze  once  more  upon  her  pallid 
features  ?  She  is  dead  to  me ;  but  what  she 
once  was  to  me,  can  never  die !  The  agony, 
the  conflict  of  hope  and  fear,  of  adoration 
and  jealousy  is  over;  or  it  would,  ere  long, 

129 


LIBER    AMORIS 

have  ended  with  my  life.  I  am  no  more 
lifted  now  to  Heaven,  and  then  plunged  in 
the  abyss;  but  I  seem  to  have  been  thrown 
from  the  top  of  a  precipice,  and  to  lie  grovel- 
ing, stunned,  and  stupefied.  I  am  melan- 
choly, lonesome,  and  weaker  than  a  child. 
The  worst  is,  I  have  no  prospect  of  any 
alteration  for  the  better :  she  has  cut  off  all 
possibility  of  a  reconcilement  at  any  future 
period.  Were  she  even  to  return  to  her 
former  pretended  fondness  and  endearments, 
I  could  have  no  pleasure,  no  confidence  in 
them.  I  can  scarce  make  out  the  contra- 
diction to  myself.  I  strive  to  think  she 
always  was  what  I  now  know  she  is ;  but  T 
have  great  difficulty  in  it,  and  can  hardly 
believe  but  she  still  is  what  she  so  long 
seemed.  Poor  thing  1  I  am  afraid  she  is 
little  better  off  herself ;  nor  do  I  see  what  is 
to  become  of  her,  unless  she  throws  off  the 
mask  at  once,  and  runs  a -muck  at  infamy. 
She  is  exposed  and  laid  bare  to  all  those 
whose  opinion  she  set  a  value  upon.  Yet 
she  held  her  head  very  high,  and  must  feel 
(if  she  feels  any  thing)  proportionably  mor- 
tified.—  A  more  complete  experiment  on 
character  was  never  made.  If  I  had  not 
met  her  lover  immediately  after  I  parted 
with  her,  it  would  have  been  nothing.  I 
might  have  supposed  she  had  changed  her 

130 


LIBER    AMORIS 

mind  in  my  absence,  and  had  given  him  the 
preference  as  soon  as  she  felt  it,  and  even 
shewn  her  delicacy  in  declining  any  farther 
intimacy  with  me.  But  it  comes  out  that 
she  had  gone  on  in  the  most  forward  and 
familiar  way  with  both  at  once  —  (she  could 
not  change  her  mind  in  passing  from  one 
room  to  another)  —  told  both  the  same  bare- 
faced and  unblushing  falsehoods,  like  the 
commonest  creature ;  received  presents  from 
me  to  the  very  last,  and  wished  to  keep  up 
the  game  still  longer,  either  to  gratify  her 
humour,  her  avarice,  or  her  vanity  in  playing 
with  my  passion,  or  to  have  me  as  a  dernier 
resort^  in  case  of  accidents.  Again,  it  would 
have  been  nothing,  if  she  had  not  come  up 
with  her  demure,  well-composed,  wheedling 
looks  that  morning,  and  then  met  me  in  the 
evening  in  a  situation,  which  (she  believed) 
might  kill  me  on  the  spot,  with  no  more 
feeling  than  a  common  courtesan  shews,  who 
bilks  a  customer,  and  passes  him,  leering  up 
at  her  bully,  the  moment  after.  If  there 
had  been  the  frailty  of  passion,  it  would  have 
been  excusable ;  but  it  is  evident  she  is  a 
practised,  callous  jilt,  a  regular  lodging- 
house  decoy,  played  off  by  her  mother  upon 
the  lodgers,  one  after  another,  applying  them 
to  her  different  purposes,  laughing  at  them 
in  turns,  and  herself  the  probable  dupe  and 


LIBER    AMORIS 

victim  of  some  favourite  gallant  in  the  end. 
I  know  all  this ;  but  what  do  I  gain  by  it, 
unless  I  could  find  some  one  with  her  shape 
and  air,  to  supply  the  place  of  the  lovely 
apparition  ?  That  a  professed  wanton  should 
come  and  sit  on  a  man's  knee,  and  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  caress  him,  and 
seem  fond  of  him,  means  nothing,  proves 
nothing,  no  one  concludes  anything  from  it ; 
but  that  a  pretty,  reserved,  modest,  delicate - 
looking  girl  should  do  this,  from  the  first 
hour  to  the  last  of  your  being  in  the  house, 
without  intending  anything  by  it,  is  new,  and, 
I  think,  worth  explaining.  It  was,  I  confess, 
out  of  my  calculation,  and  may  be  out  of 
that  of  others.  Her  unmoved  indifference 
and  self-possession  all  the  while,  shew  that 
it  is  her  constant  practice.  Her  look  even,  if 
closely  examined,  bears  this  interpretation. 
It  is  that  of  studied  hypocrisy  or  startled 
guilt,  rather  than  of  refined  sensibility  or  con- 
scious innocence.  "  She  defied  anyone  to 
read  her  thoughts  ? "  she  once  told  me.  "  Do 
they  then  require  concealing  ? "  I  imprudently 
asked  her.  The  command  over  herself  is 
surprising.  She  never  once  betrays  herself 
by  any  momentary  forgetfulness,  by  any 
appearance  of  triumph  or  superiority  to  the 
person  who  is  her  dupe,  by  any  levity  of 
manner  in  the  plenitude  of  her  success;  it 


132 


LIBER    AMORIS 

is  one  faultless,  undeviating,  consistent,  con- 
summate piece  of  acting.  Were  she  a  saint 
on  earth,  she  could  not  seem  more  like  one. 
Her  hypocritical  high-flown  pretensions, 
indeed,  make  her  the  worse:  but  still  the 
ascendancy  of  her  will,  her  determined  per- 
severance in  what  she  undertakes  to  do,  has 
something  admirable  in  it,  approaching  to 
the  heroic.  She  is  certainly  an  extraordinary 
girl !  Her  retired  manner,  and  invariable 
propriety  of  behaviour  made  me  think  it  next 
to  impossible  she  could  grant  the  same 
favours  indiscriminately  to  every  one  that 
she  did  to  me.  Yet  this  now  appears  to  be 
the   fact.     She   must   have   done    the  very 

same  with  C ,  invited  him  into  the  house 

to  carry  on  a  closer  intrigue  with  her,  and 
then  commenced  the  double  game  with  both 
together.  She  always  "  despised  looks." 
This  was  a  favourite  phrase  with  her,  and 
one  of  the  hooks  which  she  baited  for  me. 
Nothing  could  win  her  but  a  man's  behaviour 
and  sentiments.  Besides,  she  could  never 
like  another  —  she  was  a  martyr  to  disap- 
pointed affection  —  and  friendship  was  all 
she  could  even  extend  to  any  other  man. 
All  the  time,  she  was  making  signals,  playing 
off  her  pretty  person,  and  having  occasional 
interviews  in  the  street  with  this  very  man, 
whom  she  could  only  have  taken  so  sudden 

133 


LIBER    AMORIS 

and  violent  a  liking  to  him  from  his  looks, 
his  personal  appearance,  and  what  she  prob- 
ably conjectured  of  his  circumstances.  Her 
sister  had  married  a  counsellor  —  the  Miss 

F *s,  who   kept   the   house  before,  had 

done  so  too  —  and  so  would  she.  "There 
was  a  precedent  for  it."  Yet  if  she  was  so 
desperately  enamoured  of  this  new  acquaint- 
ance, if  he  had  displaced  the  little  image  from 
her  breast,  if  he  was  become  her  second 
"  unalterable  attachment  *'  (which  I  would 
have  given  my  life  to  have  been)  why  con- 
tinue the  same  unwarrantable  familiarities 
with  me  to  the  last,  and  promise  that  they 
should  be  renewed  on  my  return  (if  I  had 
not  unfortunately  stumbled  upon  the  truth 
to  her  aunt)  and  yet  keep  up  the  same  refined 
cant  about  her  old  attachment  all  the  time, 
as  if  it  was  that  which  stood  in  the  way  of 
my  pretensions,  and  not  her  faithlessness  to 
it  ?  "  If  one  swerves  from  one,  one  shall 
swerve  from  another  "  —  was  her  excuse  for 
not  returning  my  regard.  Yet  that  which  I 
thought  a  prophecy,  was  I  suspect  a  history. 
She  had  swerved  twice  from  her  avowed 
engagements,  first  to  me,  and  then  from  me 
to  another.  If  she  made  a  fool  of  me,  what 
did  she  make  of  her  lover  ?  I  fancy  he  has 
put  that  question  to  himself.  I  said  nothing 
to  him  about  the  amount  of  the  presents; 


LIBER    AMORIS 

which  is  another  damning  circumstance,  that 
might  have  opened  my  eyes  long  before ;  but 
they  were  shut  by  my  fond  affection,  which 
"  turned  all  to  favour  and  to  prettiness." 
She  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  kept  up  an 
appearance  of  old  regard  to  me,  from  a  fear 
of  hurting  my  feelings  by  her  desertion ; 
for  she  not  only  shewed  herself  indifferent 
to,  but  evidently  triumphed  in  my  suffer- 
ings, and  heaped  every  kind  of  insult  and 
indignity  upon  them.  I  must  have  incurred 
her  contempt  and  resentment  by  my  mis- 
taken delicacy  at  different  times ;  and  her 
manner,  when  I  have  hinted  at  becoming  a 
reformed  man  in  this  respect,  convinces  me 
of  it.  "  She  hated  it !  "  She  always  hated 
whatever  she  liked  most.     She  "  hated  Mr. 

C 's  red  slippers,"  when  he  first  came! 

One  more  count  finishes  the  indictment. 
She  not  only  discovered  the  most  hardened 
indifference  to  the  feelings  of  others;  she 
has  not  shewn  the  least  regard  to  her  own 
character,  or  shame  when  she  was  detected. 
When  found  out,  she  seemed  to  say,  *'  Well, 
what  if  I  am  ?  I  have  played  the  game  as 
long  as  I  could ;  and  if  I  could  keep  it  up 
no  longer,  it  was  not  for  want  of  good  will  I " 
Her  colouring  once  or  twice  is  the  only  sign 
of  grace  she  has  exhibited.  Such  is  the 
*  creature  on  whom  I  had  thrown  away  my 

135 


LIBER    AMORIS 

heart  and  soul  —  one  who  was  incapable  of 
feeling  the  commonest  emotions  of  human 
nature,  as  they  regarded  herself  or  any  one 
else.  **  She  had  no  feelings  with  respect  to 
herself,"  she  often  said.  She  in  fact  knows 
what  she  is,  and  recoils  from  the  good 
opinion  or  sympathy  of  others,  which  she 
feels  to  be  founded  on  a  deception ;  so  that 
my  overweening  opinion  of  her  must  have 
appeared  like  irony,  or  direct  insult.  My 
seeing  her  in  the  street  has  gone  a  good  way 
to  satisfy  me.  Her  manner  there  explains 
her  manner  in  -doors  to  be  conscious  and 
overdone ;  and  besides,  she  looks  but  indif- 
ferently. She  is  diminutive  in  stature,  and 
her  measured  step  and  timid  air  do  not  suit 
these  public  airings.  I  am  afraid  she  will 
soon  grow  common  to  my  imagination,  as 
well  as  worthless  in  herself.  Her  image 
seems  fast  "  going  into  the  wastes  of  time,'* 
like  a  weed  that  the  wave  bears  farther  and 
farther  from  me.  Alas !  thou  poor  hapless 
weed,  when  I  entirely  lose  sight  of  thee,  and 
for  ever,  no  flower  will  ever  bloom  on  earth 
to  glad  my  heart  again  1 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL 
NOTE 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

I.  First  Edition. 

LiBKR    Amoris;   I  OR,  I  The   New   Pygmalion.  | 
[Vignette    on    title-page.]      London:    Printed 
FOR  John  Hunt,  22   Old  Bond  Street,  |  by  C.  H. 
Reynell,  45  Broad  St.,  Golden  Sq  |  1823. 
i2mo.    Pp.  192. 

II.  Verbatim  Reprint. 

Reprinted  in  "Bibliotheca  Curiosa  "  (London,  1884?) 
with  title-page  in  facsimile.  Cloth.  8vo.  Pp.viii+igz. 
(200  copies  of  this  edition  are  said  to  have  been  issued.) 

III.  Liber  Amoris  |  or  The  New  Pygmalion  |  By  | 
William  Hazlitt  |  with  an  Introduction  by  | 
Richard  Le  Gallihnne  |  London  :  |  Elkin  Math- 
ews AND  John  Lane  |  At  the  Sign  of  the  Bodley 
Head  |  in  Vigo  Street  |  1893. 

Post  8vo.  Bds.  Pp.  xcviii-l-183.  With  facsimile  of 
original  title-page.  Some  large  paper  copies  were  also 
printed. 

IV.  Liber  Amoris  or  The  New  |  Pygmalion  By  Will- 
iam I  Hazlitt    with    Additional  |  Matter    now 

printed  for  I  THE  FiRST  TiME  FROM  THE  |  ORIGINAL 

Manuscripts  |  with  an  Introduction  by  |  Rich- 
ard Le  Gallienne  |  [London]  Privately  Printed 
i  mdccccxciv. 

139 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

Fcap  4to.  Green  buckram.  (400  copies  for  England 
and  America  printed  on  toned  Van  Gelder  hand-made 
paper.]  Pp.  i-xii+i-xxxviii  and  39-364.  Portrait  of 
Hazlitt  after  Bewick,  facsimiles  of  the  1823  title-page, 
and  letters. 

In  November,  1900,  Messrs.  J.  Pearson  &  Co.,  5  Pall 
Mall  Place,  London,  offered  for  sale  the  collection  of 
Manuscripts  and  Letters  upon  which  this  quarto  edition 
is  based  for  ;^i5o,  including  a  copy  of  the  first  published 
edition  of  1823. 

V.  Liber  Amoris  |  or  |  The  New  Pygmalion  |  Re- 
printed from  the  first  edition  in  The  Collected  Works  of 
William  Hazlitt  edited  by  A.  R.  Waller  and  Arnold 
Glover  with  an  Introduction  by  W.  E.  Henley.  London, 
1902. 

Octavo.  12  vols,  and  Index.  See  Vol.  II  for  text  of 
Liber  Amoris,  pp.  283-350. 

vi.    routledge  nsw  universal  library. 

Liber    Amoris  |  or  |  The    New    Pygmalion  |  By  | 
William  Hazlitt  |  London,  [n.d.]  1906  (?) 
PottSvo.,  cloth,  Pp.  vii-l-130. 


14  DAY  USE 

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